In Loco Parentis
by Juliabohemian
Summary: Post Infinity War AU in which Loki is the only surviving Asgardian. Who will he become...now that the only wars left to fight are those within his own heart?
1. Chapter 1

**Let me just say that I have been cooking this up for a while. I started writing this about a year ago, before I saw Ragnarok or Infinity War. It got to the point where I became obsessed with finishing it...so much so that I realized I needed to stop messing with it and just start posting it already. I am planning at least 50k words total. Hopefully there will be more.**

 **I also want to point out that I write fan-fiction in order to soothe my own frustration with the canon narrative. So while this is by no means a masterpiece, it is a labor of love. Please regard it as such.**

* * *

 _February 26, 2024_

You enter the hospital lobby a little earlier than usual, at about 7:40 in the morning. Typically, you prefer to arrive around eight-thirty so you're sure to miss breakfast, as well as the bustle of nurses making their first medication rounds of the day. It snowed fiercely for the past few months. The winters here are somewhat unforgiving...the streets oft shrouded either with a dreary blend of dirt and slush or a thick layer of solid ice. Summer, in contrast, strives to suffocate every cell of your body with its soggy, sweltering heat. How you long for the subtle seasons of Asgard, the gentle breezes and soothing showers. But spring came prematurely this year, bringing with it blue skies and clear roads. And even on Earth's most traffic laden thoroughfares, ideal weather conditions make for a much speedier commute.

The receptionist at the front desk dons a medical tunic of a light pink hue, adorned with tiny, red hearts. You're sure that you've seen her before, at least three or four times. She normally wears her hair loose around her shoulders. But the way it has been divided into two long braids makes her appear incredibly young. The relative aging of Midgardians continues to be something of a mystery to you. You briefly wonder how old she really is and whether the hospital would consider employing actual children.

"He's your dad?" she asks.

Her well-manicured fingers dance effortlessly across the keyboard. She pulls out a thin, touch screen tablet and passes it across the counter to you.

You nod absently. Somehow a silent affirmation feels like less of a lie. Not that you've ever wrestled much with the notion of dishonesty. _Truth_ is subjective, even malleable to some extent. But by now the inquiry has been posed enough times that it has simply become easier just to say _yes_.

You scroll through the directory of names on the tablet she handed you until you find your own. You press your thumb down on the screen, allowing the device to scan your print in lieu of a digital signature.

Earth keeps careful track of its inhabitants these days. They pay closer attention to some than others, of course. The United States government knows precisely where you are right now, or so they claim. It's distinctly possible that they even know exactly what you're doing. Not that you have anything to hide for once. But you will never get used to to the fact that very little of your life is genuinely private.

"Different last name?" the young lady pries nosily, after you hand her back the tablet.

"I was adopted," you provide. Which, while not a lie, technically does not apply to this situation.

You're not in the habit of disclosing such things to absolute strangers. You generally prefer to divulge only what is absolutely necessary. It just seems like the least complicated response.

She is apparently satisfied with your explanation. She smiles, revealing the metal braces on her teeth...a primitive contraption, surely. It looks painful to wear. The individual wires are interwoven with tiny, pink rubber bands. You glance once more at the material of her scrubs, and note that the color is an exact match. You have no doubt that it is deliberate.

"It's nice of you to come so often like this," she remarks. "I swear, you're one of the only ones that does. So many people dump their family members here...and they hardly ever come. Some of them never come back at all."

"How dreadful," you mutter.

While you're well skilled in the art of small talk, you're not particularly fond of it. Midgardians, you've discovered, can prattle on for hours without saying anything at all. They have very little respect for the art of oration or the value of syntax. Their conversations are heavily seasoned with colloquialisms and obscure pop-culture references. You find that you must maintain a delicate balance in order to avoid being sucked into their meaningless banter, which you achieve by sounding just interested enough to be cordial, but not interested enough to encourage further discussion.

"You're all set," the young lady chirps.

There are two large, glass doors to the left of the check-in desk. A light above them turns from red to green and they open, long enough to allow you to pass through to the other side.

"Third level," she advises, nodding her head towards the lift. "But you know that already."

"Yes, thank you," you reply. You pass through the doorway eagerly, lest you be expected to exchange more pleasantries.

You have yet to adjust to this place and this culture. You once fancied yourself a great enthusiast of chaos. In the last six years you've developed a renewed appreciation for order and serenity. American society is disorganized, yet rapidly moving; historically speaking, a volatile combination. Everything here is so loud and bright and carried to the extreme. The air, water, flora and fauna are all horribly contaminated, a product of humanity's post-industrial shortsightedness. But the citizens seem largely indifferent to the fact that they are slowly asphyxiating in their own pollution and filth. They profess to seek truth, while taking great comfort in lies. They claim to value discretion, while willingly making even the most intimate details of their lives available to the general public. They are contradictory creatures, voluntarily supporting the adoption of laws that they do not fully understand and that are designed to benefit only a small portion of society.

But you cannot deny that humans are an inventive species. And thus, they are not without their merits. For all their faults, there is something oddly inspiring about their ability to find beauty in their despair. Although the vast majority of them are content to succumb to mediocrity and complacency, there are always a few among them who manage to use their tragedy as a catalyst for growth and change.

After the war, the United States government was essentially overthrown...not by some foreign power, but by its own working class. The few surviving officials were stripped of their titles and replaced by young idealists and visionaries. The capitalist system was abandoned in favor of a more socialized economy. Most were thrilled by the development. Yet some regarded it as preposterous that a nation with the means should be obligated to invest in the survival of its own citizens. In spite of these changes, most Midgardians remain pleasantly oblivious to their own irrationality and bent upon self destruction. Even now, a vocal minority of humans continue to assert that some lives are worth more than others.

Asgard was not without its absurdities, of course. They possessed their own social hierarchy. There were those who were born into positions of privilege. Some dwelt in the palace, while others spent their days laboring in the fields or in the service of others. Yet the same degree of value was placed on the health and safety of everyone, regardless of their station, including the prisoners in the dungeons. Even those who had erred greatly enough to earn themselves a flogging were treated for their wounds immediately afterwards. Their suffering was intended to be temporary and not to linger on once their sentence had been carried out. It was not compassion that drove these practices, but pragmatism. Crimes against the throne were taken seriously. And the Aesir were hardly opposed to imprisoning their own, or even subjecting them to great physical pain as a penalty for their crimes. But loyalty was unwavering, even among the condemned. For better or for worse, everyone recognized the fact that Asgard could only be as strong as its people.

When you reach the third floor, you exit the lift. You turn right and enter a long corridor. It's still early, so nearly every person you encounter is hospital staff of some sort. By now, most of them know you. But a few do not. They all regard you with varying shades of courtesy. Still, you can sense the vigilance that is lurking behind their careful words and deliberate gestures. Should the mood strike you, you could level this edifice and lay waste to every soul within it. You wouldn't, of course. Your intentions are honorable for the most part, or at least as honorable as they've ever been. But they have no way of knowing that. And therefore, you take some degree of pleasure in their uncertainty. For at the moment, little else remains of your once mischievous spirit.

You make a concerted effort to maintain a low profile. You may be required to endure some degree of scrutiny from those in authority. But you refuse to reinvent yourself for the general populace, which unapologetically derives entertainment from the anguish of others. _Reality television_ the Midgardians call it. Not a far cry from the gladiator matches of their ancient Roman Empire, although it's unlikely that they would appreciate the comparison. Whether they are aware of it or not, they have always possessed a disconcerting level of interest in the finer details of one another's misfortunes. Not that the people of Asgard didn't spread their fair share of gossip. They just did so with far more discretion. Either way, the citizens of Earth already know far more about you than you would like. Therefore, you see no reason why you should be expected to make your personal business available for their consumption.

Most of the doors you pass are closed, bearing signs that read _do not disturb_. Without any natural light coming in from the outside, the interior of the building is illuminated only by dull, fluorescent bulbs. They cast an eerie glow on the walls and ceiling. There's a kind of stale lifelessness to it...which is fitting, you suppose, since everyone on the third floor is dying. An increased interest in what Americans refer to as _quality of life_ led to the development of facilities like this one, which specialize in the treatment of terminal illnesses. Humans are so fragile and so vulnerable to disease. Considering how fleetingly they exist, it might be appropriate to say that they are all _dying_. You wrinkle your nose at the overwhelming stench of death, lamenting your extraordinarily heightened senses. The staff is pleasantly oblivious. But the collective suffering of the residents is ringing in your ears, like a scream that only you can hear.

You've been to the hospital many times. But you will never grow accustomed to the sight of people who have become feeble with age. It is a concept that was once entirely foreign to you. On Asgard, the elderly did not surrender to physical frailties. The most fortunate died upon the battle field, with weapon in hand. Those who lived long enough expired with grace and dignity. Illnesses of any kind were uncommon. Maladies of the mind even more so. There was nothing dignified about their end, however. You occasionally hear rumors that some refugees might be scattered throughout surrounding galaxies. You have no way to confirm them. But even if you did...you doubt that you would bother. Thor could not be among them. As far as you know, you are the last Asgardian, if you can truly be considered one in the first place.

You stop in front of room 371 to find the door already slightly ajar. You can hear the television blaring from within. The telltale noises of explosions and gunfire imply an adventure film of some sort. Even though you know that your presence is anticipated, you still rap politely on the door frame before entering.

Erik is sitting up in his bed, his body supported by an excessive arrangement of pillows. His eyes are glazed over, his mouth agape. He is frozen in place, save his eyeballs, which are tracking the movement of the figures on the screen. Your first course of action is to lower the volume on the television set to a more reasonable level, so you aren't forced to speak over it.

"Good morning," you begin, hopefully.

While there are still moments when Erik appears perfectly lucid, they are becoming increasingly rare. He exhibits frequent periods of unresponsiveness, and sometimes stares into space for hours at a time.

But he turns to you and smiles, from which you conclude that he must have slept particularly well the night before. Recent fits of insomnia and nocturnal restlessness were leaving him extremely agitated the morning after. His doctors supposedly prescribed him something for it. Though you are kept apprised of Erik's mental status and treatment plan, you deliberately gloss over the finer details. You don't pretend to understand why Erik would entrust himself to these charlatans. You find Midgardian medicine to be primitive, at best; barbaric at worst.

"What's on the agenda for today, hmm?"

"Today?" he repeats, drowsily.

He glances at the television once more, before turning his attention back to you.

You move closer to the bed. He may be well rested, but you can tell from the clutter that he's been awake for quite some time. Various magazines and scientific journals are spread out across the blankets, arranged in random piles. Specific pages have been marked with torn strips of tissue or pieces of paper. Erik watches as you gather them all up and set them on the bedside table.

"Last...night?" he inquires, cryptically.

He sounds a bit more alert. Due to his recent tendency to simplify phrases by omitting prepositions and pronouns, communicating with him has become a bit of a challenge. Erik is prone to visual hallucinations, which usually take the form of people. It's not uncommon for him to accuse you of being in two places at once. Which isn't entirely unreasonable. You are technically capable of duplicating yourself...though you have not done so in quite some time.

"I wasn't here last night," you say, shaking your head.

He takes a few seconds to digest your response.

"Where?"

"I was at home," you supply. "Just as I was the night before that, and the night before that. Not very exciting, I'm afraid."

He scowls a bit, as he often does when he's attempting to make sense of something.

"Sleep?"

"Of course," you answer automatically. "What else would I be doing?"

You wonder if he can tell you're lying, or if he even has the presence of mind to care. You've never slept well, not really, not even as a child. During the first few months after the war, you sometimes stayed awake for weeks at a time. When you did manage to rest, your dreams were dark and frightening, and thick with the stench of death. You were often unable to spring free from their grasp. _Night terrors_ , Erik called them. You vaguely recalled experiencing something similar in your youth. Whatever they were, they eventually subsided...only to return, upon Erik's relocation to the hospital.

He eyes you, briefly. He looks worried.

"Thor?"

Your burst of laughter is completely involuntarily. As is the awkward smile that fades quickly from your lips. You're a bit startled by your own reaction, and you don't know what to make of it. You don't dwell much upon Thor these days. Or at least, you try not to. You're not necessarily averse to the subject. Buried deep within the layers of acrimony are countless lovely memories. But the brutality of his death still haunts you. And you've come to the conclusion that sometimes the best way to deal with disagreeable things is to avoid them like a plague.

"Not possible," you remind him, hoping he will drop the matter. "Remember?"

He blinks a few times and then issues a stiff nod.

You sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. It's only been three days since you saw him last, and he already appears thinner. The plaid pajamas he once filled out so nicely now hang loosely on his diminished frame. Erik has a fondness for breads and fattening desserts, neither of which he ever consumed with any moderation. But in the hospital, his diet is closely monitored.

The buttons on his shirt are improperly fastened, and a few of them aren't fastened at all. Much to your dismay, the hospital staff frets very little over such details. But you firmly believe that the manner in which one presents themselves is tied directly to both their self-respect and that which they command from others. It's not acceptable to you, to allow a man who was once held in great esteem by his people to be relegated to object of pity. You lean forward and go to work, diligently unbuttoning and re-buttoning until everything is in the right place.

Erik's bangs are hanging in his face. As long as you have known him, he has never allowed his hair to reach this length. Were he more cognizant, he would likely insist on having it trimmed. While you do sometimes ponder cutting it, you have yet to follow through. You know it's what he would want. But where you come from, long hair is considered dignified, even regal in some respects. It's symbolic of the passing of time, and evidence of a life that was lived.

You open the drawer by his bed and locate a comb. Erik sits quietly, as you drag its teeth across his scalp. You delicately part the strands, pulling the bulk of it to the left, and tucking it behind his ear. Then you do the same on the right. Your hand brushes up against his cheek, and you note that his usual layer of sandy-grey stubble is beginning to evolve into a full-fledged beard.

"I think it may be time for a shave," you suggest.

Though most Midgardian men utilize electric shavers, Erik prefers the more outmoded method of a straight razor and a brush. Due to his rapidly diminishing motor skills, he is no longer capable of performing such tasks. Facial hair maintenance is yet another service the hospital apparently does not provide. You are no stranger to knives, however. And centuries of practice allow you to wield any blade with machine-like precision.

Erik makes some small noise to express his agreement.

You study him, momentarily. You resist the urge to probe or attempt to evaluate his mental state, as doing so has only proven pointless in the past. You have learned from experience that subjecting Erik to unnecessary interrogation accomplishes nothing and only serves to upset him.

 _Lewy body dementia,_ his practitioners call it...in which some type of abnormal protein attacks the neurons. Whatever it is, it's savage and ruthless, a thief of body and mind. It's not a formidable opponent, but a coward that arrived in the night, cloaked in darkness.

You recall being torn from your sleep by a sound you could not identify, and rising from your bed to investigate. Although Erik had retired hours earlier, his room was illuminated. While it wasn't terribly uncommon for you to stay awake all night, you had never known Erik to do so. Both creatures of habit, you were fairly diligent about minding one another's personal space. Up until then, you had never entered Erik's chamber. When you peeked your head inside you discovered that he was crouched on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed. Upon closer inspection you were surprised to note that he had been crying, his eyes still watery and red.

 _"We'll sort it,"_ you offered, once you eyed the large, wet spot on the front of Erik's pants. You were admittedly confused. You wondered whether what you were seeing was the result of ordinary human frailty, or something else altogether. As Erik's dignity had already taken a tremendous blow, you decided it would be impolite to ask. He fought your attempts to render assistance, exhibiting some rather uncharacteristic aggression. But he eventually gave in to being lifted to his feet and guided out of his soaked pajamas. When Erik was clean and dry again, he simply went back to bed and turned out the light. And when you saw each other in the morning, he did not speak of it.

Two days later you discovered a small card that had been left out on the kitchen counter. Not a mistake...Erik had placed it right where you were sure to find it. The card belonged to a special type of practitioner called a _neurologist_. Which told you only that Erik suspected there may be something wrong with his brain. You did not pry or press him for details. It wasn't like him to be so evasive, or to communicate so indirectly. Thus, you decided that if he were doing so, there must be a reason.

A short time after Erik's official diagnosis, you ceased using illusions in his presence...yet another thing on which you've chosen not to dwell. You've never had any qualms about utilizing your magic, even deviously. Rarely have you given any thought to the effect it might have on others. But for reasons you have yet to ascertain, you cannot bring yourself to toy with his reality. You wonder whether Erik is even conscious of the fact that you've made no effort to alter your outward appearance. Right now you are wearing a pair of slender-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved _Syracuse University_ t-shirt. Your hair is slicked back into a braid, which is bound inelegantly with an elastic band. It's less than ideal. But it's not as though you're trying to impress anyone. And you're confident that, were Erik coherent enough to choose, he would prefer authenticity over pageantry.

Erik tugs at his bedclothes, drawing them up to his chin.

"Are you cold?" you ask.

You slide your fingers under the blanket and find his wrist. Erik's skin feels dry. But it seems warm enough.

Erik ignores the question.

"Lars?" he says suddenly, raising his eyebrows.

You withdraw your hand, carefully.

"No," you reply, "it's just me."

Every time Erik utters the name of his son you experience a mild sting of...well you wouldn't go so far as to call it jealousy. Because that would not be appropriate. This man before you is not your kin and therefore, you lay no claim to him. And yet, there's something markedly unpleasant about being mistaken for someone else. Especially someone who perished long ago. Your understanding is that the child's death was the result of some unfortunate physiological defect. While Erik suffers from a number of persistent delusions, this one tends to gnaw at you. You've seen but one image of this _Lars._ Despite his poor health, he was a robust lad with fair skin and a head full of golden curls, actually not unlike Thor as a young boy. But he bears no physical resemblance to you whatsoever.

Erik sighs, frustrated perhaps. He is becoming so difficult to read these days. He wants to say more. But the words won't come to him.

"Not...even...eight," he declares, slowly.

You follow his gaze to the digital clock on the opposite side of the room and note the time.

"That's correct," you confirm. "It's only a quarter of."

"No...breakfast," Erik adds, with a sour tone.

You usually arrive at the hospital a bit later, after he's already eaten. He's been awake for a while now, and they've yet to serve him his morning meal. So you imagine that he is hungry.

"Not yet," you offer. "Probably soon, though."

Your attempt to appear hopeful is genuine. But it still feels awkward. You have very little experience with such things. Asgardian children were urged to mature beyond any need for emotional comfort, long before they reached adolescence. Females were afforded a little more flexibility, as it was socially acceptable for a woman to nurture her children or be supportive of her spouse. But apart from matters of life and death, full grown males did not typically offer one another verbal reassurances.

He reaches out and pokes you in the chest.

"You...are... _early_ ," he announces, speaking each word a bit more loudly than the one before it.

His arm trembles a bit as it hovers in the air. He cannot hold it there for long. When his strength gives out, he brings his hand to rest on top of yours.

The corners of your mouth curve upwards, ever so slightly.

"Yes," you agree. You know that these little bouts of clarity are entirely random. But you can't help being pleased by the observation. "I suppose I am."


	2. Chapter 2

_June 8, 2018_

You linger in the doorway at the foot of the stairs for several minutes. You watch as Erik tidies up the living room. He dumps a large basket of clean linens onto the sofa and begins to sort and fold them. You wait for the him to say something or to acknowledge you somehow. He does neither.

You consider clearing your throat. But that seems a bit too pedestrian. Obviously, Erik is aware of your presence and is choosing not to address you. You think, perhaps, he is waiting for you to speak first. You open your mouth to do so...but then you hesitate. Because you still haven't quite worked it out, just what it is that you're planning to say. You lick your lips a few times, as though the act alone can somehow provide you with the appropriate words. You've always taken pride in your ability to turn a phrase, and yet you are struggling to scrape together a coherent sentence.

Another minute ticks by, sluggishly. The suspense continues to build, and you find yourself buckling under its weight.

"I...appear to have caused you some grief," you finally offer. "Please accept my sincerest regrets."

It's not the most well-crafted statement you've ever made. Nor is it the least. Still, it should be more than sufficient for your purposes.

Erik does not glance up from what he is doing, however.

"Did you hear me?" you ask, feeling vaguely silly.

There is a small table in the center of the room. You take a few steps forward and stop in front of it. Although there is a couch on either side of the table, you do not sit down.

"I heard you," is Erik's soft reply.

You stand up a little straighter, now that you know you have his attention.

"Well, it's customary to respond when someone speaks to you," you announce, brazenly.

"Is that right?" Erik sounds thoroughly unimpressed.

He glances up at you, briefly. For a moment it seems like he might say more. But he doesn't. He just keeps folding the linens and setting them into the basket.

You exhale slowly, trying to maintain your composure. You despise being ignored. But you've endured much ghastlier forms of alienation. And you will not allow yourself to be baited. You are far too dignified to lose control of your temper over something as paltry as this.

"I just thought perhaps you might have more to say on the matter," you prompt.

Erik looks up again.

"Oh? Such as what?"

"I...don't know," you admit.

You are puzzled by his reaction. You were expecting far more resistance: a litany of grievances against you, for example, or at least an accusation of insincerity. You would almost prefer to argue, because arguing is productive. Unlike whatever it is that you're doing now, which is beginning to feel like a tremendous waste of time.

Compared to Asgardian men, Erik is extremely passive. Not only is he ridiculously patient, but he appears averse to rage and aggression. You refused to believe that anyone could be so sedate, of course. Unable to betray your mercurial nature, your immediate instinct was to shake the other man up, break loose the darker parts of him that had become hidden deep within and force them out into the open.

You recall how enthusiastically you scrolled through the pages of news articles, desperately trying to find some shred of evidence that could be used to disparage Erik's impeccable character. At the time, it seemed like a rather grand idea. It certainly made for a splendid distraction from your own troubles, which you have become relatively adept at avoiding. Earth's internet technology is somewhat rudimentary in design, and fairly effortless to navigate. Your initial searches yielded countless videos of Erik streaking through some sort of architectural ruins, sans clothing...a bout of lunacy from his not so distant past. Despite its obvious entertainment potential, you ultimately elected against exploiting such material. For one thing, Erik did not appear prone to embarrassment. And contrary to popular belief, you were not inclined to wanton cruelty. Your goal wasn't to humiliate the man. You merely wanted to demonstrate that he was no more virtuous than yourself.

When you notified Erik of your discovery, you had genuinely expected to experience some degree of satisfaction...some rush or momentary thrill of victory. Your only reward, however, was the confused and wounded expression on his face.

Afterwards, you retreated instantly to your room. To do what, you did not know. You paced and mulled and paced some more. Erik did not disturb you, except to inquire periodically as to whether you were hungry. You had informed him, quite petulantly, that you were not. Which was, naturally, a lie. And an utterly pointless one. For it was painfully apparent that Erik had no intention whatsoever of liberating you from your solitude. You had been secluded to the dungeons for a far greater stretch of time, and managed not to succumb to madness. And yet, after only a few days in your room, you felt desperate to escape. And thus, you became determined to smooth things over with your host, if not just to put an end to the excruciating tedium.

"This is not an apology," Erik concludes, frankly. He plucks a towel from the pile and folds it in half. "This is damage control."

You frown at his assessment. You cannot fathom why he is being so difficult. But if he thinks you're going to grovel, he is sorely mistaken.

"I'm afraid I don't follow," you claim, innocently. You tilt your head slightly and bat your eyelashes. It's a shameless gesture, and one you've not relied upon since you were still in your youth.

Erik is unmoved by your charms.

"Yes, you do."

Your lips part, as you consider the other man's observation. It's unlikely that he could have dissected you so quickly. But you've spent several weeks together now. And given your personal history, that's more than enough time for familiarity to breed contempt.

Erik regards you a moment, meeting you with a bold stare. While he's as calm as ever, you don't like the way he's studying you. His eyes scan the full length of your body, before once again landing upon your face. The persistent attention makes you uneasy, and you're suddenly compelled to avert your gaze.

When you first arrived at Erik's home, you were gifted some basic clothing items. And though you courteously acknowledged the other man's charity, you prefer your illusions. Your current ensemble is hardly elaborate enough to qualify as traditional Asgardian attire. But it's certainly more presentable than any of the garments Erik provided you with. You know there is no logical reason behind your need to maintain a facade. You're simply accustomed to feeling more polished on the outside than reality allows. In this climate your hair is susceptible to frizz. You aren't sure about the rest of the planet. But this particular patch of Earth is far more humid than you're used to. And while you know there are probably products available that are designed to help one manage such things, you still find it easier to rely on magic. You know that Erik is merely a human and that his perceptions are limited. Yet the way he is eyeing you makes you wonder whether he can actually see through your disguise.

"I didn't lie to you, you know," Erik notes, "not intentionally, anyway."

"Meaning?"

"You asked if I had any children, and I told you that I didn't. Because I don't... _anymore_."

You respond to his rationalization with a derisive snort. He ignores it.

"I had a son. His name was Lars, and he was born with a congenital heart defect. He needed a transplant. But a suitable donor was never found. He was sick most of his life, and he died when he was five. His mother and I divorced shortly afterwards, and we haven't kept in touch."

You nod politely, although that is hardly the explanation you were expecting. When you discovered that Erik indeed had a child, you pictured a grown man who was the spitting image of his father, perhaps living in another city somewhere. Moreover, you assumed that if Erik were hiding something it would at least be something worth concealing, something beyond mere sentiment.

It quickly becomes clear that your attempt at a resolution has been unsuccessful. You wonder why he is just sitting there, why he isn't demanding that you leave his home or calling upon some higher authority to have you forcibly removed. Either way, you doubt there is anything more you can say that will help the situation. You decide to return to your room, while you can still consider it such.

"Though it might interest you to know," Erik adds, bluntly, "that I was a lousy father."

You halt in the doorway, undeniably curious. You rotate your body a few degrees, just enough that you can see his face.

"I drank...a lot," Erik confesses. "I mostly drank so I didn't have to deal with the fact that my son was dying, or that I had nothing in common with his mother, who I'd only married because she was pregnant. She was a decent woman...a _good_ woman. But I wasn't happy with her. All I cared about was my research. And when my son died, I felt relieved, because it meant we could finally get divorced. I didn't care how she felt. I didn't care how my son felt. I just cared about myself. When I finally sobered up, I realized what a selfish piece of shit I was..."

You're caught off guard by the nakedness of his disclosure. You're not used to people confiding you so forthrightly. Where you come from, people rarely spoke so freely about their personal affairs, and they especially avoided sharing anything that would paint them in a poor light. Asgardians were more liable to gossip about one another's failures behind closed doors. Oddly enough, this is exactly the sort of information you were trying to get your hands on just a few days earlier. Now that it's being offered to you willingly, you aren't sure that you want it.

"I don't understand why you're telling me all of this," you grumble loudly.

"You accused me of being a liar," Erik explains, candidly. "I just thought you should have all the facts."

"You are _mocking_ me," you huff.

"No," he asserts. "I would never do that."

You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You're exhausted, both physically and mentally. You have not slept properly since prior to your arrival...for a number of reasons that you would rather not consider. But you suspect that, were you more well rested, you probably could have avoided this confrontation altogether.

"The thing is," you begin, "I didn't know that he was dead."

You hate the sound of your own voice...weary and defeated. You suppose it's unfortunate that you are so well known for telling lies. Your rare moments of honesty tend to fall on deaf ears.

"Didn't come across that information during your extensive, Google research session, I take it?"

It's peculiar, how effectively he manages to sound both sympathetic and condescending in equal measure. He's obviously not angry. It seems more like he's just...disappointed.

You are quiet for several seconds. You want to go back upstairs, if not just to escape the incredible awkwardness of the conversation. But after what Erik just shared, it feels foolish to simply walk away. Although all common sense points to the contrary, you are still convinced that you can recover some measure of control over the situation.

"Look," you state, diplomatically, "I had no business prying into your private affairs..."

"I don't care about what you did," Erik informs you, matter-of-factly.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"I would not mind, however, knowing _why_ you did it."

You clench your fists in frustration. Any other person would be seething with ire. They would be yelling and berating you or banishing you from their sight...not casually pondering your motives.

You don't understand what difference it makes why you did it. No one has ever cared about your reasons before. In fact, they generally tend to assume that you have none.

You know that you can easily press the issue, engage in a tiresome back and forth until you are both exasperated and spent. In the wake of so much tragedy, it doesn't seem like a worthwhile use of energy. Though Erik's true agenda continues to remain a mystery to you, so far he has been exceedingly benevolent. And while the man is eccentric, and possibly lacking in discernment, he isn't stupid. There's a dormant shame within you that begins to resurface, and you wonder why the hell you felt so compelled to stir up unnecessary trouble in the first place. You cringe as you are once again reminded that you've yet to outgrow your penchant for self-sabotage.

"Very well," you propose, cautiously. "In light of your gracious hospitality...I shall endeavor to mind my business from now on."

Erik doesn't address your statement directly. He folds his hands atop the towels that are in his lap.

"I know that you're in pain," he says, "and I'm sorry for that. But that doesn't give you the right to treat other people like crap."

It's evident that the other man is annoyed with you. His words suggest as much. Yet the remark is delivered with unusual tenderness. Unfortunately, your tolerance for pity is somewhat limited. And even if you were in pain, which you are most definitely not, it would be none of his concern.

Your rebuttal is slow and calculated.

"I assure you _sir_ , that no degree of my predicament is worthy of your sympathy."

His reply is immediate.

"And I assure _you_ that any sympathy I might harbor for you or your _predicament_ is not based on worthiness."

"You...you think I deserve this," you whisper, looking down at your feet.

Naturally, you don't specify what _this_ is. Because you aren't really speaking for his benefit. You're only thinking out loud. You typically exercise more care with your words. Somehow, these manage to escape your lips before you can give them proper consideration. It crossed your mind, of course, that your survival was not the result of random events, but some sort of punishment. Perhaps it is the universe's way of collecting its pound of flesh, a penalty for all the damage that you've done. But that begs the question...what of your own grievances? Who settles that debt? Are your sins truly so great that your own suffering matters not? And what point is there in asking, when there is no one left to answer?

Your eyes fall closed, as you have no desire to see the expression on his face. Surely he will be unable to resist the opportunity to claim his victory, now that he's gotten a glimpse of how pathetic you truly are. At the very least, he will further reprimand you for your indiscretion.

But he does not.

"I think the only person who actually believes that is you," he replies.

You lift your head, hesitantly. Though you are confident that you heard incorrectly, you are not about to ask for clarification.

"Life isn't about what we deserve," Erik adds. "I used to think the reason my son died was because I didn't _deserve_ him. I wasn't a good father. I didn't appreciate him; therefore, he was taken away. Kind of a naive point of view for an atheist, I'll admit..."

"Condolences," you mumble, cheekily.

For the first time since you met, Erik raises his voice.

"Don't patronize me," he scolds, sharply.

He raises a finger and points it at you. " _You_ don't get to patronize me."

You open your mouth. But he cuts you off before you can launch your defense.

"I know better than most what you are capable of," he declares. "I know you could easily kill me, if you _really_ wanted to. But I have a choice. I have a choice in how I respond to you, and I choose not to respond with fear. Because I think, when it comes down to it, that you're more of a danger to yourself than you are to anyone else. Maybe that's the way you like it. I don't know why the hell you'd want that, but it's not going to do a damn thing for you here. Do you understand?"

You knew that it was only a matter of time before he breached this particular topic. Given the circumstances, his inquiry is perfectly justified. And thus, it makes no sense that you should take offense.

"I'm not going to kill you," you mutter under your breath. "Don't be _absurd..._ "

He rises from his seat.

"I asked you a question, son."

Your ears prick up unexpectedly at his use of the word, _son_. It triggers a disturbing and completely involuntary physical reaction. There is an undeniable shift in your posture to that of one more subdued and sheepish. When the heat rushes to your face, you know that a faint blush is also spreading its way across your cheeks. You're somewhat relieved that you possess the ability to alter your physical appearance.

Though you are intelligent enough to surmise that being quarrelsome is a poor way to allege one's maturity, your instinct is to protest being referred to so crudely. He is but a mortal, whose existence is as fleeting as that of a common insect. And you are a god. Or you used to be, at least. You're not sure what you are anymore. You're certainly not feeling particularly _godlike_ at the moment. But he holds no authority over you. And despite whatever kindnesses he has extended thus far, he has no right to address you in this manner.

"I'm not a child," you insist.

"Is that so?" he probes, incredulously. "Then perhaps you should stop behaving like one."


	3. Chapter 3

_February 26, 2024_

"Goodness...that looks delicious," you declare, with unveiled sarcasm.

You do not bother to mask your disgust, as you peel away the cellophane on Erik's tray to reveal what the hospital generously refers to as a meal. The food is comprised of colors and textures that are both bland and unappetizing. It doesn't really seem much like traditional breakfast fare. You recall your childhood in Asgard, which was marked by plentiful banquets, rich both in flavor and variety. Midgardian cuisine isn't entirely inedible. There are actually a few dishes that you've grown to enjoy. But this food bears little resemblance in comparison. And you can't help noticing that unlike previous meals Erik has consumed at the hospital, this one appears to have been pureed into an unfortunate mush-like state.

He is undaunted, however. He grabs his spoon and digs right in. He grips the utensil in his fist with the same indelicate ferocity that one might wield a dagger or a chisel. For the most part, the food makes it into his mouth. You're tempted to grab a towel and tuck it into the man's collar, in lieu of a bib. Though you're confident the gesture would not be well received. Erik's motor skills have diminished somewhat. But you know that there are some things he would rather not have help with, and eating is one of them.

"Jell-O?" Erik asks.

He hefts the little plastic cup of brightly colored gelatin and thrusts it towards you, enthusiastically.

You chuckle and shake your head. You have never eaten Jell-O before, and you aren't about to start. You also know that any sort of desert the hospital is giving Erik is likely to be free of natural sugars, which means that it will be flavorless and filled with foul chemicals.

"Hmm...that's a very generous offer. But I think I shall have to decline."

"Orange," Erik notes, scrunching up his face with disapproval.

He continues examining the item in his hands for several seconds. He is unable to hold it for long. He drops it haphazardly onto his tray. It bounces once and then ends up on the floor, a few meters away from the bed.

"Don't...like," he says.

"I suppose you'd prefer another color," you suggest, bending down to retrieve the item. You set it on the bedside table, far out of Erik's reach, just in case he decides to try and toss it again.

"Green," he replies, after a moment of consideration.

You nod. You couldn't begin to guess what flavor that might be...apple perhaps. You know that there are many other fruits on Earth that are green in hue.

"I see."

Erik scoffs. Though his capacity is diminished, he appears to sense that you are merely humoring him.

"Tell...nurses," he orders, sternly.

You aren't entirely sure how the hospital determines what they will be feeding their residents. But somehow, you assume it's more a matter of supply than demand. And based on what you know about the hierarchy of hospital staff, you highly doubt that the nurses have much say in the matter.

"I will let them know," you lie, with a smile.

You find it odd that the other man is so unusually verbose. Not because it's out of character. But because, since his diagnosis, Erik's communication skills have deteriorated considerably. And during a few of your more recent visits, Erik barely spoke at all. You wonder if perhaps the new medication isn't to blame. You quickly dismiss the thought, however. You know that whatever it is, this thing that ails Erik, it is far beyond even your own capabilities to repair. Therefore, its cure is likely to demand a whole lot more than just a good night's rest.

Even prior to his diagnosis, Erik was prone to thinking aloud. He's a gregarious person by nature, especially when there is food involved. Growing up, you engaged in very little mealtime discussion. There were plenty of conversations between you and his parents, they just rarely took place at the supper table. As children, you and Thor were usually expected to hold your tongue during meals, especially in the presence of adults. When you were older, Thor tended to dominate mealtime discussion with stories of his glorious feats. You rarely found occasion to interject. Therefore, you grew accustomed to consuming your meals in polite silence.

Before moving to the hospital, Erik frequently insisted upon your company, even just to share coffee or cake. Sometimes Erik served coffee and cake, simply so he could insist upon your company. _Fika_ , he called it; Swedish tradition. No matter how many meals you share together, you continue to speculate about whether it is simply the presence of another person that Erik desires, or _your_ presence. Not that you would ever inquire about such a thing. But considering Erik's current mental status, if there were a time to do so, it has surely passed.

When the orderly comes to retrieve the breakfast tray, you watch him transfer Erik into his wheelchair. Despite the fact that the man is physically fit, it's still a slow, clumsy process. You know that you could perform such a task with far greater ease. For some reason, Erik prefers to allow the hospital staff to do it. Once the orderly leaves, you roll Erik's chair into the bathroom. It's a snug fit, especially with all the guard rails in place. But the bathroom provide better lighting and closer access to running water.

Erik's shaving kit is equipped with a ceramic dish and a brush made of real animal hair. The round bar of soap is rather fragrant, something you concocted yourself with sandalwood and red cedar. The razor you conjure from a safe place...where you took to storing similar items, when it became necessary to do so for Erik's safety. You lay all the items out on the sink. Except the blade, which you keep just out of his reach.

You fill a plastic basin with hot water. Then you wet the brush under the tap and work it against the surface of the soap. It doesn't take you long to produce a sufficient lather. You sit on the edge of the commode and apply the foam to Erik's face. Intermittent tremors make shaving Erik with such a sharp blade a rather dangerous process. Remarkably, your magic has very little effect on his overall condition. But you are able to calm him long enough that you can complete the task without causing him harm.

Erik keeps his eyes closed, his hands gripping the arms of his wheelchair. His eyelids flutter as the bristles of the brush make contact with his face. Once the suds are evenly applied, you set the brush aside.

"Ready?" you ask.

"Ja," he confirms, softly.

You unfold the razor. Holding Erik's chin in your palm, you gently drag the sharp side of the blade across his face with your other hand. You dip the blade into the water and stir it rapidly, shaking off all the foam residue. You tap the blade on the side of the basin and begin to work on the other side of Erik's face. It only takes a few broad strokes to do away with the bulk of the hair. Then it's just a matter of touching up whatever you missed.

"Bra," Erik tells you, without opening his eyes. " _Good_."

"Mmm hmm," you respond. "Believe it or not, I have a lot of experience with sharp objects."

He whispers something. His voice is so faint that you cannot hear him. Then he giggles quietly to himself.

You can't help smiling. He looks almost like a child with a secret.

"Well, I am glad that you're amused."

He continues to mumble under his breath. It's unclear whether he is speaking to you or if he is speaking to himself.

"I did not quite catch that," you remark, offhandedly.

When he doesn't respond, you stop what you are doing and study him more closely. His eyes are still shut. It's hard to tell whether he is even aware of you at all.

" _Hva?_ " you pry, gently. You know that in his current state he startles easily. " _Förlåt?_ "

He clears his throat and begins speaking again, not a whole lot louder than before. Most of his words you can't quite make out...though two are unmistakable.

"Glorious...purpose."

The comment is so unexpected that you almost drop the blade into Erik's lap.

Under the influence of forces far greater than yourself, you once arrived on Earth with bold intentions. Armed by Thanos with a powerful scepter, you caused great devastation and effortlessly controlled those you recruited along the way. Despite the depth of his intellect, Erik was possessed just as easily as the rest. After all, it was not by accident that you chose him. You needed someone who understood the Tesseract, someone who would appreciate what it was capable of and know how to harness its energy.

 _I am burdened with glorious purpose_ , you announced. Your memories of the surrounding events are muddled and dark. But you remember those words with great clarity. During the time you and Erik lived together, you only ever spoke of the incident once. Considering everything that happened since, it's strange to hear him mentioning it now. That part of your life doesn't even seem real anymore. It's almost as though those things happened to someone else.

You recall the day that Thor was to be crowned king. You had your reservations, of course. Some of them were fueled by jealousy and some of them were not. You resented the favor your father had always lavishly bestowed upon his older son. You had long grown weary of feeling inferior to a brother who was incapable of folly in the eyes of his people. You felt that an effective ruler could not be driven by ego alone, that to allow Thor to rule over Asgard would ultimately lead to its ruin. Thus, you had allowed Frost Giants to invade the palace during Thor's coronation. It was the perfect ruse, certain to inspire a reckless thirst for revenge.

You wanted Odin to see that his fair-haired boy was not yet mature or responsible enough to inherit the throne. But you had never meant for Thor to make it all the way to Jotunheim. You had only intended for him to try. Nor had you intended to be dragged along. You had assumed, at the time, that Thor would not include you, as Thor had rarely seen fit to include you in such excursions. It was there that you ultimately learned of your true Jotun parentage and subsequent adoption by Odin and Frigga. In hindsight, you might have derived more satisfaction from your brother's banishment, had you not been so distracted by your discovery.

When confronted, Odin maintained that King Laufey had deemed you an inadequate offspring and left you to die on a frozen rock. His hope was that you could one day be used to foster a treaty of peace and unite the two realms. You pressed him for more answers, watching helplessly as he collapsed into a deep sleep. With Thor banished to Earth and the All-Father indisposed, you were granted temporary rule over Asgard.

You wondered if perhaps fate had smiled upon you, finally allowing you the opportunity to prove your worth to Odin...that you were more than just a tool or a means to an end. You became convinced this could be accomplished through the elimination of the Frost Giants. You were no longer ruled by logic, but emotion. And you were far too addled to appreciate your own hypocrisy. You reasoned that, after all, it was Odin who had driven the Jotuns into submission in the first place. Despite his protestations, you were still convinced that he would ultimately revel in their annihilation. And it would be fair to say you were seeking to exorcise your own demons in the process...a symbolic cutting of the thread that connected you to your shameful origins. Hoping to prove your allegiance to Asgard, you lured your biological father into the palace and slayed him in the very room where Odin slept.

You eventually attempted to use the Bifrost to destroy Jotunheim. But then Thor returned from his banishment with a softened heart and thwarted your plans. You battled upon the rainbow bridge. Your brawling left you suspended from it, hanging on for dear life. When Odin arrived, it was not to congratulate you for your prowess, nor to rescue you from peril, but to levy judgment upon you. It sickens you to think of it, how desperately you longed for his affirmation, how badly you needed it. In that moment, when you reached out, you concealed nothing. Your soul was laid bare.

You close your eyes briefly. You are there again, staring up at Odin, waiting and hoping. He could have said anything, anything at all. Because anything at all would have been better than...

 _No, Loki._

Upon realizing that your attempts to gain Odin's approval had all been in vain, you simply let go and descended into the abyss below. You genuinely expected to die, to be torn apart and scattered into the furthest reaches of space. But instead you fell. Slowly, at first. And then faster and faster, as though you were being pulled by some unseen force.

Your mouth was open. But no sound came out. You could not speak. You could not scream. You regarded your circumstances not with logic, but with your most inherent, primitive reflexes. You knew only pain and regret. You withdrew from them the way a child withdraws from something hot or sharp.

You don't remember landing. You remember only the thick, inky-black darkness. Your mind was invaded by...someone or some _thing_. They were probing and searching and digging around. You could feel them in there, scratching through the surface, apparently skilled enough to break past even your most well-maintained defenses. Their agenda was clear. Tales of Asgard reached far beyond the nine realms. Even an adopted son of Odin might have something of value to offer his new hosts in exchange for his continued survival. And you quickly learned that if you wanted to persist intact, it was in your best interest to be valuable. After all, the alternative was not a swift death you had once craved, but an eternity of unimaginable suffering.

Thanos marveled at your fortitude and determination. He even praised you for it. _What a lively, defiant spirit you are_ , he remarked. Though he was confident he would tame your ego, in due time. You bit back against him for as long as you were able. But there was no use fighting him. You eventually grew tired and weak, and Thanos was relentless. He broke you down, intent on remolding you into something he could use. Your memories became warped and twisted, your story edited over and over until all the little pieces of love were erased.

You thought Heimdall, with eyes that could see all, would alert Thor to your predicament and dispatch him straightaway. Thor still cared for you, after all. Did he not? Even if he didn't...surely no anger, nor conflict between you, was so great that he would see fit to leave you to your own devices. He would not abandon you in your time of need.

 _"My brother will come for me,"_ you asserted, boldly.

But oh...how you would come to rue those words, as well as the confidence with which they were spoken.

 _"What brother?"_ Thanos inquired, with amusement. _"Odin's family mourns you not. As we speak, Asgard rejoices at your absence."_

And you didn't believe him, not at first. But as time went on and Thor failed to intercede on your behalf, you began to wonder. Perhaps going home was not an option after all. Perhaps it never would be. Taking one's own life...it was not explicitly forbidden in your culture. But it was disgraceful all the same. It was considered a cowardly death. Even if by some chance your father allowed you to walk freely among the citizens of Asgard, you knew you would still endure their scorn and disapproval.

Thanos informed you that you need not concern yourself with Asgard any longer. You were part of _his_ family, one of _his_ children, that he had chosen you and you should be honored. He would not allow you to speak of those who had discarded you. He reminded you that you had been tossed aside like refuse. To them you were but an animal, a plaything, something they'd acquired for their entertainment.

 _You were pushed, remember? Scraped off like a parasite._

Thanos promised to grant you that purpose you so desperately desired. He found that spark of bitterness within you and ignited it. And he stoked the flame until you were suffocated by its heat and filled with a frantic lust for revenge. Somewhere underneath it all, you knew that the glory he offered you was just another illusion. But your mind was clouded. And thus, you did not fully appreciate what a grievous error in judgment you were making, or the dire repercussions that would follow.

You knelt so long before Thanos that your knees were left worn and raw. The pain was meant to serve as a reminder that you had been conquered, that your will was no longer your own. When he finally released you, it was such a relief to be able to stand, to move of your own volition. And so, when confronted with a crowd of frightened humans, it seemed appropriate to demand that they kneel before you. For it was all you could do to obliterate the shame of your own subjugation. By exercising control over someone else, you hoped to regain some sense of control over yourself.

You repeated that which you had been told, that which had been beaten into you. You were burdened with _glorious purpose_.

Once upon a time, you were royalty. You were an heir to the thrones of two of the most powerful realms in the universe. You were Jotun by birth and Asgardian by adoption. You were a prince, a son, a brother and by many definitions, a god. Now you don't know what you are. You're not even sure who you are. All your life, you defined yourself by those around you. You defined yourself by your relationship to your parents. You defined yourself by your relationship to Thor. You even defined yourself by your relationship to the citizens of Asgard. Now, all of those people are gone, and you are completely lost. And in the wake of so much tragedy, the jealousy and childish ambition that once drove you now feel hollow and foolish.

It's been six years since the war ended, and the tide of destruction has long since ebbed. And while this bears no resemblance to the life you imagined for yourself in your youth, you must constantly remind yourself that it's still a life nonetheless. You might be stranded on Earth, your home and your family gone forever. But somehow, for some reason, despite all statistical improbability, you're still alive. You're still moving, still breathing. Surely there must be a reason. Because everything has a reason.

You swipe at Erik's chin with your thumb, brushing away a bit of shaving foam. He opens his eyes and grins at you. He appears happy, although you doubt very much that he even knows why. It's not in your nature to trust. People's actions are always suspect, their words even more so. But his expression bears no hint of malice, and you know that he would never say anything with the intention of causing you pain.

"Well," you return, casually, "what could possibly be more glorious than this?"


	4. Chapter 4

_June 8, 2018_

You've been on Earth for thirty-five days now...thirty-three of which you've spent here, in this house. Still, it seems like a lot longer. Amidst all the action and stress, it was easy enough to stay distracted. In the heat of battle, you were convinced that as long as you kept moving, you could avoid thinking about all that you had lost.

As princes of one of the most powerful realms in the universe, you and Thor had both grown accustomed to the luxury of defeating your opponents with ease. You discovered too late that your confidence had been ill-founded. As you made your way to Earth with the Asgardian refugees, Thanos descended upon you, striking your meager vessel with his mighty ship. He and his minions boarded and systematically slaughtered what remained of your people. You had no time to devise a strategy. You only had time to react. With all other options thoroughly exhausted, you attempted to strike a bargain, offering up the Tesseract in exchange for your brother's life. In the end, you managed to lose both.

You knew that it was your own presence, as well as that of the Tesseract, that drew Thanos to your ship to begin with. Your attack on the Titan was the result of both ill-preparedness and desperation. You were armed with the knowledge that there were, in fact, parts of Thanos that were vulnerable to injury. And so, you lunged for him, brandishing a small dagger, with the intention of slicing his throat. It was a foolish, impulsive move, and one with little potential for success.

Thanos disarmed you easily and even delighted in your foolishness. But instead of unleashing his fury on the one who attempted to assail him, he directed his rage at Thor. You watched in horror, as your brother's skull was crushed in Thanos' mighty fist. The sight of it was so grotesque and so terrifying that it became permanently etched in your brain. You had mere seconds to lament your haste. Heimdall's final act, before succumbing to his own wounds, was to use what remained of his dark magic to dispatch you to Earth...you and the green monster known as _Hulk_.

You were stunned and unable to move or speak. The monster had apparently transformed back into Banner at some point during your rapid descent. Dr. Strange recognized you immediately, of course, and identified you as a potential threat. Bruce stood in between you, his arms splayed wide in a gesture of surrender. You knelt on the ground helplessly, as the other man rattled off the chain of horrific events that precipitated your arrival. You were covered with something that you suspected was vomit. And you were vaguely aware that your face was wet. Though your body and soul were numb. You did eventually regain your senses, at least enough to corroborate Banner's story. It was unnerving...that period of complete indifference. For several minutes you cared not what would become of you. In hindsight, you wonder what might have happened had Bruce not succeeded in neutralizing matters so promptly. Had you landed alone in such a state, you're not entirely sure you would have bothered to defend yourself.

You had encountered Strange only once previously, when you and Thor had retrieved your father from his banishment on Earth. Although _banishment_ may not be the right word. At the time, you preferred to think of it as a holiday of sorts...from the harsh pressures of reality. You harbored some degree of bitterness towards the man who called himself the _Sorcerer Supreme_. You couldn't understand how someone who had acquired little more than a child's mastery of magic could possibly hold themselves in such high regard. But even with his misplaced confidence he wasn't entirely useless. And given the gravity of the situation, you saw no need to cling to your personal prejudices. You knew you could always reclaim them later on.

Despite your past entanglements, _Earth's mightiest heroes_ were surprisingly willing to acknowledge that you had a common enemy. And they welcomed both your intel and your thirst for vengeance. If nothing else, it was a sign of how absolutely dire things had become. They had no idea what they were up against. They certainly had not been expecting to be defeated so quickly or so easily. But in all fairness, neither had you.

Thanos brought so much death, not just to Midgard but to every corner of the universe. When it was finally over, half of all living things were gone, wiped out with a single snap. That which remained seemed frozen in place...almost as though time itself were standing still. And when the dust settled, you were left with the realization that everyone who'd ever meant anything to you was gone forever.

As dreadful as it was, you at least knew that the worst was over. For seven years you had lived under the constant threat of the Titan's wrath. With Asgard gone and your family dead, there was nothing left for Thanos to take from you. He was ruthless, but fortunately also single minded. He'd sought to annihilate precisely half the souls in the universe, no more and no less, and he had done just that. You knew that with his goal accomplished, Thanos would be content. And thus, he would no longer have any use for you.

You had been wounded. Not severely, but badly enough. When you were apprehended, you did not bother to resist. You allowed yourself to be detained and taken aboard an aircraft of some sort. You later arrived at a heavily guarded government building, located in one of Midgard's more densely populated regions.

You received no treatment for your wounds, nor were you allowed to bathe or change your clothing. No one spoke directly to you or told you why you were there. You weren't even provided with any food or water. No one expressed even the slightest degree of interest in your physical condition. The agents simply deposited you in a cell, locked the door and walked away. You were convinced that you could have conjured a rope to hang yourself, and your body would have begun decomposing before anyone was the wiser.

Alone in the in the darkness, with only your thoughts for company, you attempted to heal yourself. Several of your ribs had been fractured. The rest of your wounds were superficial. But there were so many of them that you lacked the energy or the motivation to tend to them all.

You considered Thor...of whom you had no remains. There wasn't even a lock of hair for you to braid into your own or a bit of armor to wear, nothing to remind you of the brother who had once lived. You could not bring yourself to pray for him. Because to pray for him was to admit that he was truly gone. And you knew that no prayers were necessary to usher him into Valhalla. Any Asgardian who had died gloriously in battle would undoubtedly be waiting to welcome him with open arms. You imagined the people of Earth erecting a statue in Thor's honor, declaring him a hero, while you had once again managed to end up in a cage. Such disparities were not new additions to your narrative...you've learned to wear them as comfortably as one does a cloak or cape. And yet the bitterness that had once plagued you was strangely absent. Instead you began to wonder if perhaps that was not the natural order of things.

On the morning of your third day in the cell, you were roused by a violent trembling. There were hands on you, shaking your body. And you were rather abruptly reminded that the bulk of your injuries had yet to mend.

 _"I've been trying to wake you for five minutes."_

It took you a moment to recall where you were and why you were there. When you opened your eyes, it all came rushing back. You quickly recognized the person before you as Steve Rogers.

 _"Is this some sort of rescue operation?"_ you asked, once the initial wave of panic had receded. _"If so, I'm not sure if I'm interested."_

 _"No,"_ he replied, coolly. _"There's been a mistake. But it's been corrected."_

 _"Oh? What sort of mistake is that?"_

 _"The kind that ends with you going out the front door,"_ he responded.

You were relieved to learn that you had not been completely forgotten. But you were understandably suspicious of the man's chivalry. You were suspicious of him in general. The way he spoke...it was as though his dialogue was being read from a script that had been prepared well in advance. And you'd become allies purely out of necessity, which implied only a minimal degree of mutual trust and obligation. And so, you did your best to appear affronted by his presence.

 _"What if I'm not interested in being collected, like some sort of stray animal?"_

 _"I suppose you could just stay here,"_ Steve pointed out. _"But why would you want to?"_

He didn't seem particularly keen to discuss the matter. He stood in the open doorway to your cell, waiting for you to follow him.

 _"It's over,"_ you reminded him, as you made you way down a long corridor. _"Thanos is gone."_

He spoke over his shoulder.

 _"Uh huh...I know."_

While the other man's stride was brisk, you saw no reason to hurry. Mostly because you were in pain and also because you still didn't know where the hell you were hurrying to.

 _"Thor is dead,"_ you added, although you were quite certain that he knew that already. You felt a brief pang of guilt, as the words left your mouth. You spoke the truth. But it felt like a betrayal to say it aloud.

 _"So?"_ Steve asked, pausing to allow you to catch up.

You responded as though the answer were obvious.

 _"So...why concern yourself with my fate? I'm no longer of any use to you."_

The other man regarded your statement with a peculiar expression. But he did not reply.

And while you eventually went out the front door, just as Steve had promised, there were conditions for your release. Before you were allowed to depart, you were expected to furnish your captors with a complete testimony of your involvement in the war. They also requested full disclosure of any special powers or abilities you possessed, in compliance with something known as _the Sokovia Accords_.

Still in a state of relative shock, dehydrated and starving, you complied with their request. It probably didn't help that, prior to being presented with your options you had been forcibly injected with some sort of chemical. Its purpose, you assumed, was to ensure your cooperation. Initially, the drug left you feeling drowsy and disconnected. It wasn't altogether unpleasant. It was definitely a welcome respite from the physical discomfort. After a few minutes, however, you began to experience a rather frightening level of disinhibition.

You sat in a dark room before a panel of strangers, most of whom in military regalia, and some of whom represented only by holographic projections. You struggled to remain conscious as you answered deeply invasive questions about yourself, about the Infinity Stones, about the extent of your interaction with Thanos, even about your family history and the destruction of Asgard.

It was surreal, how effortlessly they drew the information out of you. There were things you told them that you'd never before spoken aloud, things that no one knew. And yet you gave them up, freely. It was a violation, the depth of which you were far too numb to appreciate.

 _"You are suggesting that Thanos wielded you...like a weapon. Would that be a fair assessment?"_

Something deep within you was screaming. A true warrior would never allow himself to be used. He would never succumb, no matter how great the threat. No measure of torture would break him. He would endure any suffering. He would die bravely, with weapon in hand, never yielding...

 _"Mister Odinson?"_

 _"A fair assessment,"_ you repeated, slowly. _"Yes."_

The ordeal went on for quite some time. When they finally finished questioning you, there was a long silence. You peered through the darkness at the sea of blurry faces. Your eyes would not focus. Your head was swimming and your body was floating.

 _"I say we put him in the fridge,"_ someone exclaimed, matter-of-factly. You couldn't see his face. He was seated further away. You had not heard his voice before. He was older than the others, tired and jaded. He spoke with authority. You didn't know what _The Fridge_ was. But you doubted it was good.

 _"Gone are the days of storing every enhanced being under lock and key,"_ a woman interjected. You recognized her voice. She had been among those interrogating you. " _Do you have any idea how much that shit is costing taxpayers?"_

 _"Not that you care,"_ another added, with amusement. You could not place his accent. But it was unlike any you had heard before. _"Do you even pay taxes?"_

 _"You kids are worse than HYDRA,"_ the older man accused. " _You're going to ruin everything."_

The female only laughed.

They argued a bit more about what to do with you. But they eventually agreed to issue you a conditional pardon and grant you asylum on Earth. They made certain to emphasize the fact that they would be watching you very closely. And naturally they informed you that your citizenship was temporary, and that it was subject to immediate revocation should you decide to run afoul of the law. You weren't terribly concerned. Because you were not intending to stay all that long.

 _"Where exactly are we going?"_ you inquired, as you and Steve finally exited the building.

 _"A little town called Solvay,"_ he replied. _"It's about 400 miles north of here."_

 _"And where are we now?"_

 _"This is the nation's capital,"_ he declared, proudly, _"Washington D.C."_

 _"Charming."_

You had been educated on the broad strokes of Earth geography. But humans were always constantly redividing their land and moving their borders. And the names of specific locations changed so frequently that it seemed almost pointless to bother committing any of them to memory.

While Steve seated himself in the front of the vehicle, you opted to sit in the back. Once you had buckled yourself in, he pulled something from the pocket of his jacket and thrust it towards you.

You glared at the item. It was a small, white package. There were words written on it, though you could not focus your eyes well enough to read them.

 _"What is this?"_

 _"It's medicine,"_ he explained. _"It's for nausea. It's uh...it's like a patch. You peel off the back and apply it to your skin."_

 _"Why should you care whether I am nauseous?"_

There was a flash of irritation in his eyes and it seemed like he might be planning to chastise you for your ungratefulness. But his features quickly relaxed, and he sighed instead.

 _"Look, do you want it or not?"_

 _"I don't need it,"_ you lied.

He regarded you, skeptically.

 _"So...you don't feel like puking your guts out right now?"_

You glared at him, wondering how he could possibly know. Your head was still spinning. You knew that you would probably be vomiting if there were anything left in your stomach to expel.

 _"Yeah, me too,"_ he disclosed.

He tilted his head back to reveal his neck, where he had applied one of the patches.

You reluctantly took the package. After you opened it, you applied it to your skin, just as he had done.

 _"It's whatever that was that they injected us with."_

You grimaced momentarily at the awkwardness of his statement. _Us..._ meaning you and Steve. As though there were any logical reason to group the two of you together.

 _"I'm told the effects are temporary,"_ he added.

He admitted that the chemical's use was a non-negotiable condition of your release, and his as well. It was supposedly laced with some kind of radioactive isotope. Its purpose wasn't solely to facilitate interrogation, but also to suppress certain types of energy and to allow the government to constantly track your location on Earth. That still seemed suspiciously generous, considering your history. As luck would have it, the recent spontaneous reduction in human population had apparently done away with the specific individuals who would have most adamantly opposed your release.

 _"Why are you doing this?"_ you asked, at some point during your journey.

You had already been on the road for hours and you were still foggy. You longed to alter your appearance to something more presentable. But you were still so weak that you found it difficult to maintain any illusions for more than a few seconds at a time.

 _"I don't know."_ Steve confessed. _"I guess...because it's better than doing nothing."_

 _"Is it really?"_

 _"Well, I'm a big believer in second chances."_

You scoffed at the other man's reasoning.

 _"You have no idea how many chances I've had."_

Somehow, the last thing you had been expecting was to find yourself at the residence of Dr. Selvig. You remembered him, of course. And you were confident that he remembered you.

 _"Is this intended to be humorous?"_ you demanded.

You were genuinely baffled as to why the man would want to be anywhere near you ever again, let alone invite you into his private domicile. This was surely...what was it your mother used to say? _Courting disaster._

Steve answered your question as though he'd been anticipating it.

 _"It's not a joke, if that's what you mean."_

You glared at him in utter disbelief.

 _"You're not worried that I might do something...unsavory?"_

Steve just shrugged, wearily.

 _"Are you planning on doing something unsavory?"_

You weren't really sure what to say. You weren't _planning_ on doing anything. For the first time in your life, in fact, you had no plans whatsoever.

Erik's home was not located in a large city, but in a far more sparsely populated area. It was an odd looking, two-storey structure with an unattached garage, set on a disproportionately large plot of land. The parcel was enclosed entirely by a tall, wrought iron fence. On your way to the front door you passed through a rose garden with a fountain and decorative statuary, all of which appeared rather poorly maintained. You noted that many of the plants were either dying or had become overgrown. There was a certain charm to it, however, like something out of a children's book.

As you entered the house, you discovered a cramped arrangement of compartments. On the upper level there were two bedchambers of comparable size, each with their own adjoining washrooms. The staircase was narrow and crooked, and inconsistencies in the molding suggested that some portions of the house were not a product of its original construction.

Erik greeted you both cordially. He offered you food and water and then gave you a brief tour of his home. You attempted to appear gracious, of course. Despite the fact that it had been days since you had consumed anything, you still did not feel much like eating or drinking. You knew that in order to regain sufficient energy to heal yourself, you would eventually require sustenance. But after being trapped in a vehicle with Steve for over six hours all you really cared about was retreating to the comfort of solitude. You were also somewhat eager to cleanse yourself. Blood was caked on your face and in your hair, something you were still powerless to disguise. Erik provided you with some fresh garments, which he'd deposited within the drawers of a long, wooden chest. Although they weren't exactly to your personal taste, they were at least clean and warm. They would be sufficient covering until you regained the ability to alter your appearance.

When you closed the door to your room, you were disturbed to discover that it had no sort of locking mechanism. Not wanting to suffer any unexpected interruptions, you took a few moments to secure it. Your magic felt weak, and the simple binding spell required a ridiculous amount of effort. Through the thin layer of wood, you could hear the other two men speaking about you.

 _"How is he?"_ Erik asked.

 _"I don't know,"_ Steve confided. _"I don't really know the guy. But he barely said anything on the drive over."_

Erik did not sound particularly alarmed. _"_ _Considering everything that's happened, he's probably still in shock."_

 _"I think we're all still in shock,"_ Steve agreed.

And you lingered a moment, eavesdropping on their conversation. You were mildly annoyed that you were being discussed so crudely. But mostly you were waiting for them to state the obvious: that you were a criminal, a monster who could not be trusted, and this was a colossal mistake. You would betray them all somehow, or at least do something to make them regret their hospitality. The two men engaged in no such speculation. Instead they talked about the weather, about Steve's vehicle, about sports games and other trivialities.

At the time you suspected that Erik's offer was being made out of respect for your fallen kin. It was, after all, the only logical explanation. He and Thor had been friends. It was not uncommon, in Asgardian culture, to honor the dead by tending to their surviving family members. Although you knew not whether the people of Earth possessed any such traditions. You decided not to concern yourself with Erik's motivations. You found it strange that someone of such tremendous intellect could be so lacking in caution. You wondered if perhaps his mind had become warped, due to its exposure to the scepter. Ever the opportunist, you opted to regard his offer as nothing more than a temporary solution to a temporary problem. Accepting it meant having a safe place to stay and a clean bed to sleep in, until you figured out what the hell to do next.

But things aren't quite so urgent anymore. And it isn't that you are particularly fond of Erik or your current living arrangement. You just aren't ready for anything else to change. You aren't ready to move forward, physically or otherwise.

There is a very tiny part of you that longs to return to a point in your life when you were still young enough that you were permitted to err without consequence. Long ago, before everything became so dark and tainted, the universe seemed magical and full of possibilities. You could still gaze into the stars and harbor some degree of wonder. Now absolutely nothing remains of the life you once knew. You are weary and alone. It might make you weak. It might make you a coward. But you are consciously choosing the path of least resistance.

"You want me to leave," you state, flatly. It's not quite an offer. Though it might as well be. You notice that your hands have become sweaty. You unclench your fists and flex your fingers against the door frame.

You begin brainstorming. You've worn out your welcome in so many places that your list of potential destinations has become quite abbreviated. You doubt it's even possible for you to leave Earth at this point. The United States government made a rather naive attempt to suppress your magic. But seeing as they don't really fully grasp how your magic works, they succeeded only in preventing you from using it to travel interdimensionally. And even if you could leave this realm somehow, you don't know where you would go. It was inevitable that Erik would eventually realize what a mistake it was to bring you here, although you honestly didn't expect it to happen so quickly. You curse yourself for growing so complacent that you neglected to secure alternative plans. You wonder if maybe some part of you hoped that it would not be necessary.

"Would you step back in here?" Erik asks. After a beat he adds, "please."

You glance up at the other man, folding your arms across your chest. You know it is a defiant gesture. But you are a defiant person by nature, and you cannot help yourself. You're not accustomed to being ordered about, even politely. And so, you wait a moment before taking a few cautious steps back into the room.

"Did I say I wanted you to leave?"

You blink in confusion. You know those were not Erik's exact words. But you've learned from experience that even those with the best intentions rarely say precisely what they mean.

"Well?" he prompts, when you don't respond.

"No?" You don't appreciate being spoken to as though you are a child. And you cringe when your reply comes out sounding like a question.

"You can stay here as long as you need to," Erik says. "That was my offer and I'm a man of my word. But I'm not going to tolerate any more of your nonsense. Do you understand?"

You briefly consider feigning ignorance. Except that you know precisely to which _nonsense_ he's referring.

You can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment when you lost control over the conversation. You hate the fact that, for now at least, you appear to be dependent on someone else's kindness. It's not a position you're altogether comfortable with. Because kindness is a limited resource. You know it's only a matter of time before he tires of you. You don't understand why he's bothering to pretend otherwise. You don't know what motivation he could possibly have to tolerate you one second longer than necessary. And yet...you can't deny feeling some degree of relief that you aren't being evicted. Certainly, you might need to make other plans. But you don't need to make them tonight.

Erik is persistent, however.

"I need an answer," he encourages, gently.

"Yes sir," you say quietly, "I understand."


	5. Chapter 5

_December 12, 2020_

Even after two years on Earth, there are certain things to which you have yet to adjust. In Asgard, the intervals of darkness and light were far more complex, and not dependent on the orbit or trajectory of any sort of moon or star. On Earth the nights are far too brief, even during the winter months. And thus, you cannot always sleep precisely when you want to. Sometimes you lie awake all night and read. Erik provided you with a device called a _Kindle_ , which can be used to access just about any printed material ever published on Earth. You enjoy having such an unlimited selection. But you miss the weight of a book in your hands, the smell of the ink on the paper. There is something satisfying about the physical turning of a page, as opposed to merely scrolling along a screen with your finger.

Despite your superior physiology, you are still an organic being. And so, every three or four days, your body eventually succumbs to fatigue, and you are overcome with the need for physical rest. The longer you wait before sleeping, the longer you have to sleep. You try not to stay in bed for more than twelve hours in a row. In your own realm, it was perfectly acceptable to sleep for even greater spans of time. On Earth there is an underlying current of urgency. Excessive sleeping is frowned upon, and time regarded as something better spent on things of a more productive nature. Although your host has yet to impose any sort of rules upon you, you still make some effort to coordinate your bizarre sleeping schedule with his comings and goings. On weekdays Erik rises early and goes to work at the University in the nearby town known as _Syracuse_. He often does not return until the late afternoon. Sometimes you eat supper together and sometimes you do not. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, however, Erik almost always stays home and makes breakfast for you both.

You detect the smell of bacon frying even before you open your eyes. Your mouth waters in response, and you are intently aware that you are more than just a little hungry. Probably because you slept for a bit longer than usual, and you had not eaten too recently when you retired last. Despite your famished state, you still take a few minutes to properly sort your bed. You utilize only minimal layers...a top sheet and a thin, flannel blanket. As a child, you owned a thick quilt. It was lined with wool and stuffed with goose down...a dreadful heavy thing. You recall how your mother would drape it over your body. You would wriggle uncomfortably, begging that she allow to let you sleep atop of it instead. She would reluctantly agree...yet you always woke, hours later, to find yourself underneath it again.

Your pajamas are hardly revealing. But there is something about wearing them at the kitchen table that you find uncivilized. You open the drawers of your dresser and retrieve a pair of pants, a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and socks. You perch on the edge of your bed and dress yourself. You quickly drag a brush through your long, black hair. You do still sometimes alter your appearance with magic, although not with the same degree of regularity as you once did. You have even updated your illusions to include attire more consistent with Earth fashion. Erik never comments on your appearance. You know that such things are meaningless to him, and that any illusions you conjure are merely for your own personal comfort.

As you make your way down the stairs, you are immediately aware that there is someone else in the house. Their presence is strong...and familiar. It is not entirely a shock. Erik has entertained guests before. It is just that he ordinarily warns you well in advance. And he has never done so this early on a Saturday morning.

When you enter the kitchen, your suspicions are confirmed. Erik is at the stove, cracking eggs over a large skillet. Jane Foster is seated at the table, sipping coffee. Jane. _Thor's_ Jane...though not for long, if his version of the story is to be believed.

She smiles and issues a little wave.

You are taken aback by how informally she regards you, as though you see one another every day. Now you are relieved that you took the time to dress yourself.

You do not address her directly. You turn to Erik.

"What is _she_ doing here?" you demand.

You cannot help pronouncing the word _she_ with an exaggerated level of disgust. It is not that you dislike Jane. You found her rather agreeable, during your brief interaction. And you know that she and Erik have been collaborating recently. You just were not expecting to walk out of your room and find her sitting at the kitchen table. Especially not on a Saturday morning, a time when you and Erik normally eat breakfast together.

You wonder at what point you began to think of this as _your_ space. Worst yet, you are confronted with the realization that you do not wish to compete with anyone for Erik's attention. Either way, her presence is an intrusion. And you do not like it one bit.

"Loki, don't be rude," Erik scolds, offhandedly.

He pauses to reach for some sort of seasoning, which he applies liberally to the eggs in the skillet. While Jane appears friendly, you are certain that you detect a hint of smugness in her eyes. Although you would be loath to admit it, there is something about Erik's paternal tone that you find oddly comforting. But you do mind being chided in the presence of others. And Jane, of all people, should not be privy to such exchanges. You do not fully comprehend this strange rapport that you and Erik share. But whatever it is, it is for the two of you, alone. You glance at her again. Her once long, brown hair has been trimmed into a short bob and dyed a deep shade of red. While she is as lovely as ever, the sight of her inspires a multitude of unpleasant memories.

"I was just telling Jane about your hidden talent," Erik adds.

You glare at him, dumbly. "My what?"

Granted, you are a bit distracted. Though you honestly do not know what he is referring to, until Jane chimes in.

"This is exquisite," she remarks. In the center of the kitchen table there is a circular design with three interlocking triangles. She traces the carving with her fingers. "Is this a valknut?"

It is a perfectly reasonable question. But you are not feeling particularly reasonable.

"I am going to the garage," you huff, though you were not planning to do so until much later in the day.

The dining area is fairly small, and you shuffle through it in record time. You jog back upstairs to your room and retrieve your shoes. You pull them on, somewhat hurriedly, not bothering to untie the laces in advance. You then dart back downstairs. You walk briskly through the kitchen, since it provides the most direct route to the garage. You grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator on your way out. You decide that you can always eat later, after Erik's _company_ leaves. When you pull the door closed behind you, you exert a little more force than necessary. As it slams shut, you can hear the pots and pans on the wall rattling. It is completely juvenile. You are almost ashamed of yourself...almost. It has been quite a while since you engaged in such childish behavior.

When you first came to stay with Erik, he made it abundantly clear that he did not wish for you to be idle. And you were actually fine with that, to some extent, because you welcomed the distraction. Sometimes he would ask you to help him with his research, mapping out parts of the galaxy that remain beyond the reach of human technology. Other times the chores were mechanical in nature, something related to his automobile or a malfunctioning appliance.

He never made demands, never ordered you about. He never actually stated the obvious...which is that you were living there at his expense and it would be prudent to compensate him in some capacity. He always petitioned you in such a way that you had the option of saying _no_. His phrasing was so deliberate, so non-threatening. He might say _I think I'm going to need some help with this_ or _I don't suppose you're terribly busy_. And he never levied judgement upon you for utilizing magic to perform less desirable tasks.

And thus, you rarely found cause to decline. Your enthusiasm was usually lacking. But regardless of your efforts, Erik was always overflowing with praise. It was peculiar, the way he regarded even the simplest of deeds as being worthy of gratitude. It did not seem possible that anyone could be so easily pleased. Despite your skepticism, you generally regarded his affirmations as harmless or benign. That is, until one day when they were not.

 _I'm sure your parents would be proud,_ Erik told you, excitedly.

And you knew that it was not meant to be taken literally. It was just something that people said...a figure of speech, one of Earth's many colloquialisms. While you knew his words had been spoken with kindness, they felt like an accusation. You had no intention of reacting to his statement, truly. But your stomach dropped, and your mouth became dry, and an icy chill began working its way down your spine.

You scarcely thought about your parents. You were disciplined enough that you could avoid dwelling on just about anything, so long as there was nothing around you to serve as a reminder of it. On Earth, there was very little to remind you of your previous life, and you rather liked it that way. It made it easy to pretend that you were not you, or at least not the _you_ that you had been up until your arrival.

Suddenly you pictured Odin and Frigga in your mind, their expressions an amalgamation of those they had worn in your presence. You searched their faces for something resembling pride. All you could see was disappointment, fear, annoyance, and occasionally amusement. But no, not pride. You knew what pride would look like on their faces, as they had worn it many times for Thor. They had found Thor's every deed admirable in one way or another. Not that you could blame them. In spite of your own bitterness and jealousy, you had always admired Thor. You had often wanted to _be_ Thor. You tried to imagine what, if anything, you could have done to merit such esteem. You knew that there were probably times when your parents had been satisfied with you. But you seriously doubted that they had ever been truly pleased. Towards the end of their lives, you had brought them nothing but shame and grief. The last time you saw your mother, you had been confined to a cell for your crimes. And in your anger, you had denied her parentage.

 _Am I not your mother?_ she had implored. And oh, how you had wanted to say _yes_. How you had wanted to break free from your cage and throw yourself at her feet...clutch her skirts and beg for the chance to be her little boy again. But to embrace her would have meant embracing Odin as well. It would have meant forgiving him all his lies. And how many times had he resisted your affections? How long had you labored in vain to earn his notice?

Just moments before his death, Odin had uttered those poisonous words: _Frigga would have been proud_. And while you had doubted very much that your mother would take any degree of pride in your prolonged banishment of her husband, you wondered what had possessed Odin to make such a curious statement in the first place. You were not deluded enough to think there was anything remotely admirable about what you had done. While your initial motivation had indeed been some flavor of revenge, ultimately you had usurped Odin's throne as a means to an end...Thanos would no longer seek revenge against you, if he truly believe you to be dead.

Disguising yourself as Odin had allowed you to remain in Asgard, while hiding in plain sight. And if Odin had perished while in Midgard, perhaps it would have served him right. Then you could have continued the charade indefinitely. You had not expected Thor to return and thwart your plans. Nor had you expected to be confronted with Odin again. He had been so soft and so old, not at all the man you had remembered. He had shown you no anger, nor rage. He had spoken only of love. It had been so confusing that the thought of it evoked intense discomfort.

You could not begin to imagine what Odin might think of you, knowing you had failed to protect his people, knowing that it was probably your fault that they even needed protecting in the first place. Or worse yet, that you had allowed his beloved Thor to be slaughtered in cold blood. You experienced a wave of nausea as you recalled your brother's brutal end.

There was nothing you were doing on Earth that was worthy of _pride_. You had managed to go an entire year without causing any real mischief. But it was not as though you had been overwhelmed with opportunity. You had done nothing but carry out a series of meaningless tasks, which appeared to be designed mostly to distract you from the monotony of your existence. If Erik believed that to be deserving of celebration, his expectations of you must have been incredibly low.

It was only then that you became aware of the anger that had awakened within you...an anger that was not meant for Erik, but was about to be directed at him all the same.

He immediately surmised that something was wrong, of course. His expression morphed into one of concern. Instead of retreating to safety, however, he began moving towards you.

" _Do not come any closer_ ," you hissed. You held up your hands, palms open. You did not want to alarm him. You tried to appear calm. But your tone betrayed you. And while your words were intended only as a warning, they more closely resembled a threat.

You were disgusted by the emotion in your voice, how weak you sounded, how pathetic. Something horrid was building up inside you, like a dark sickness. It was growing so rapidly that you knew it would soon be beyond your control.

When the energy forced itself out of your body, it was almost painful. It rushed out of you like a cold wind. In the space of two seconds, all the furniture in the kitchen rose up from its place on the floor and crashed into the closest wall. Erik toppled backwards, bringing both arms up to protect his face. All the while, there was a tremendous roar, followed by the crunching of wood and glass.

Once you realized what you had done, you fled the kitchen and ran upstairs. It had been quite a while since you had done anything with such urgency. When you were a child there had always been freedom in your speed and your slightness, from all the things that were wrong about you. And there had been _so_ many things that were wrong about you. But you were no longer a child. And you far from home, not safe within the walls of a great palace. You were in a small house, with few places to hide. There were no long corridors or dark corners with magic portals.

Once you were in your room, you pulled the door shut behind you. You flung yourself upon your bed with such ferocity that you thought it might actually break. You buried your face deep in the pillows, clawed at the blankets, and screamed. You screamed until your throat hurt, until you could no longer produce sound. It was a dreadful noise...a reminder that you were a monster, a dangerous thing that should be locked up for the safety of others.

You were convinced that, at any minute, someone would kick down your door and carry you away in chains. Surely after being reminded of the extent of your abilities, Erik would no longer want you in his home. But when you were quiet again, all you heard was Erik knocking. You could not answer. You knew of no words that could hope to mend what you had done. When you heard him fiddling with the knob, you hastily secured the door with magic. You pulled one of your pillows over your head and closed your eyes.

You did not comprehend what you were feeling. And you wanted to. You really did. You longed to tear it all open and peel back the layers until you could make sense of the chaos. But you were afraid that you would just be tearing and tearing, and in the end...there would be no real answers. There would be nothing buried beneath it but more uncertainty and anguish. You were terrified by the possibility that time could not heal you, that there would be no point at which you finally be free and clear of the pain.

When you slept, you dreamed of Thor...casting a shadow across the landscape with his broad shoulders and mighty fists. He called out your name with his deep voice, and his words rolled out across the sky like thunder. You ran towards him, eagerly. Except that when you found him, he was so very big and you were so very small. You searched frantically for the love on his face. But you could not find it. You could see only disappointment and rage. And so, you ran from him, ran as long and hard as you could. Your legs felt heavy underneath you. You tripped over your own feet, tumbling forward, rolling and rolling down. And then you were falling again...falling through the darkness.

You found yourself encased in a room of glass. Through its walls you could see your family. They were dressed in their finest attire, conversing excitedly and touching one another with affection. How you longed to join them. You yelled and pounded your fists against the glass, hoping to attract their attention. But they did not turn or gaze in your direction. They did not see you there at all. Something began to suffocate you, causing you to choke and gasp for air. You fell to your knees and slowly succumbed, while your family remained pleasantly oblivious.

You woke drenched in perspiration and tangled in a mess of sweaty bedclothes. It was almost dark outside. Despite having slept most of the day, you were still weak and drowsy.

You crept out of your room and down the stairs. The majority of the mess had been cleared away. There were a few dents and holes in the wall. There was a long scrape across the surface of the refrigerator. But there was no major structural damage. The kitchen seemed rather empty without any furniture in it. The house was silent. You did not sense Erik's presence. You peeked out the window and confirmed that his vehicle was missing from the driveway. You sat on the sofa in the living room and stared straight ahead. For the first time in a long time, you were genuinely worried about what was going to happen next.

When Erik entered the house again, he was carrying two large bags.

 _"Nice to see you up and about,"_ he said.

You watched him set the bags down on the coffee table, and begin removing cartons of food.

 _"Are you hungry?"_ he asked, casually. _"I got Thai."_

You knew that you should say something. But you could not bring yourself to speak. Your throat was sore from screaming and you knew your voice would probably be hoarse.

 _"Are you alright?"_

The question surprised you. Especially since you were confident that you had injured him earlier. Although he was apparently unharmed. It dawned upon you that you should probably apologize, or at least explain your behavior.

 _"That happen to you before?"_ he inquired.

You nodded. It had, in fact, happened many times before. But it had been quite some time since the last occurrence.

Though there was plenty of room on the couch, he sat down right next to you, close enough that your knees were touching. He reached out and clasped your shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.

 _"I think you need to find another outlet for your energy."_

You cleared your throat.

 _"Such as what?"_ you replied, grimacing at the sound of your voice.

 _"Well,"_ he posed, thoughtfully, _"we're going to need a new dining table..._ _and chairs."_

You frowned. It was unclear whether he was simply making a statement or if he was making some kind of request. You had no qualms about acknowledging your responsibility for the destruction of the aforementioned items. That was the least you could do. But you had no currency with which to purchase replacements. You could conjure some. But maintaining a persistent illusion, represented by actual, physical mass for any length of time was not a practical solution.

 _"There's quite a bit of wood behind the garage,"_ he added. _"And I'm sure I can acquire whatever tools you might need."_

 _"You want me to build you new furniture,"_ you stated, purely for clarification. Because he could not possibly be serious. You had never built anything in your life, not with your own hands anyway. Well, that wasn't entirely true. In your youth, you and Thor had built a number of rather impressive forts. But since then, anything else you had erected had been the product of magic.

 _"I want you to build us new furniture,"_ he informed you, with a smile. _"Unless you'd like to eat dinner in the living room from now on."_

You pursed your lips. You were not sure what he was playing at. You might reside in his home. But pretty much everything in it belonged to him. Things did not simply become yours by virtue of your presence.

Early the next morning, you ventured outside. Behind the garage you found a large accumulation of wood. You lifted the rough, burlap covering and surveyed a rather immense mound of lumber. The top of the pile, which consisted of the smallest pieces, came even with your chest. The wood had lain unprotected from the elements for some time. It was clearly warped in places, due to the absorption of moisture and exposure to frozen temperatures. You were not even sure if it was suitable for kindling, let alone making furniture. You sighed and began picking pieces from the top of the stack and tossing them aside. You hoped there would be some usable pieces buried within the pile somewhere. The wood was fairly light, some type of pine. Fortunately, towards the bottom of the pile the wood was thicker and more intact.

You began the task begrudgingly. But over the next few days, you discovered that it was rather pleasant to be consumed with something again. It was possibly even slightly gratifying...having something to do that was not completely futile and pointless. You became so engrossed in your work that you were entirely oblivious to the passing of time, a phenomenon you had not experienced in quite a while. For weeks you sawed and carved and sanded and polished. You were not used to doing so much physical labor, and at times your hands ached from the persistent use. But you decided that if you were going to create something, it should at least be done well. It should be something of quality, something durable that would last. And certainly, it should be pleasing to the eye. You ultimately drew inspiration from the symbols and motifs that had surrounded you in your youth...all those curved lines and intricate knots.

Only when you presented your work to Erik did it occur to you...that he may not wish to dine upon something that was a reflection of your personality, as opposed to his own.

 _"I know they are a bit fancier than the others,"_ you offered, as he examined your creations.

Though you were expecting disapproval, he seemed genuinely impressed. And he took his time to inspect each individual detail.

 _"_ _You have exceeded my expectations...truly_ _,"_ he replied, _"I'm honored."_

You lift the large sheet that covers your most recent project, an oak chest. Today you were planning to stain it with steel wool and vinegar. You take out a sanding block and touch up the edges a bit. You run your fingers gently along the surface of the chest, searching for imperfections.

Not long after, Erik enters the garage carrying a plate of food. He sets it down on the workbench closest to you. You know that you should say _thank you_ , or perhaps even apologize for your earlier outburst. You are still a bit too bitter to manage it.

After setting the plate down, he stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his cardigan.

"If you have grown weary of my company, just say so," you announce. "No need to inflict me upon one of my brother's discarded women."

You rarely speak of Thor, and never so crudely. You peek at him, warily, in anticipation of his reaction.

"I thought perhaps you'd grown weary of _my_ company," he explains.

"And why would you think that?" you inquire.

"Well...it's not as though you interact with anyone else."

"Not so," you counter. "Captain Rogers was here just the other day. I distinctly remember saying _hello_ and _goodbye_ to him."

It is evident that he has no desire to argue with you. He does not address your statement.

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, instead.

"I am not cold," is your response. "It is perfectly lovely out."

You glimpse at him once more. You realize that he is bouncing from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm. You are not sure what the exact temperature is. There is a very thin layer of snow on the ground from the night before. Even without a jacket, you are content.

"Still," he sighs, "I do wish you'd come inside to eat."

"Is she gone?" you wonder aloud.

You frown as you picture yourself sitting beside her at the table... _your_ table, no less. You cannot quite put a finger on what it is about her presence that you find so irksome, so you decide it is probably in your best interest to avoid her altogether.

Your question elicits a hearty laugh from Erik.

"No."

"Well, be sure to let me know when she is."

"You know," he confides, "I had hoped the two of you might be friends."

"She was Thor's woman," you declare, flatly. "That does _not_ make her my friend."

"You're pouting," Erik points out, still bouncing. When he speaks into the cool air, his breath makes steam.

"I most certainly am not," you protest. "I have never _pouted_ in my life."

It is quite the lie, of course. Were either of your parents present, they would undoubtedly testify that you spent the better part of your childhood _pouting_.

You return to sanding the chest. You assume that Erik will simply go back inside, especially since he is obviously experiencing some degree of physical discomfort. But Erik remains for a moment, watching you work.

"That's really lovely," he says, softly.

You exchange a brief glance. He looks almost proud. You press your lips together, trying not to smile. You are pleased that he is pleased. But you would prefer that he not know it.

"I should have told you she was coming over," he offers, before heading back inside.

You nod, but you do not reply.


	6. Chapter 6

_July 16, 2022_

It is well into the morning hours, though still dark enough to be considered night. You are seated at the dining table, hovering over a freshly poured cup of tea.

Erik rarely rises before dawn. It's been over a week since you found him on the floor, and he's been somewhat distant. He's been cordial, of course. But he's been quieter, more subdued. Thus, you are genuinely surprised to see him enter the kitchen at such an hour.

He greets you with a tired smile.

"If I didn't know any better," he observes, "I'd say you look almost...happy."

"How _dare_ you," you reply, playfully.

Ordinarily, he would laugh at such a remark. You wait for him to do so. But he does not.

"This is my favorite time of day," you provide.

"Three o'clock in the morning?" he asks. "It's the _witching hour_."

"Says who?" you inquire, incredulously.

"Oh, Christians mostly. Supposedly it's the time of day when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest."

"But you lend no credit to such things," you point out.

"Of course not."

"Midgard constantly pulses with activity," you explain. "Its people are rarely still. There is a constant hum of energy here, both from living things and all the machinery. At times it can be...overwhelming."

Erik stands in front of the sink. He is gazing out the window, although you are not sure why. It is doubtful he can see much in all the pitch blackness.

"You can actually hear it?"

" _Hear_ might be the wrong word," you answer. "Though it is probably the closest approximation. Either way, this is when it is most...peaceful."

"Ah," he replies, absently.

You can tell that Erik is not quite listening to you. He is distracted by something.

"Couldn't sleep?" you probe, casually.

He continues to look out the window.

"I um..." he begins. He pinches at the bridge of his nose a bit. "I actually have something I need to tell you."

"Oh?"

It does not take him long to share the news. It quickly becomes apparent that he was made aware of his diagnosis during his appointment the afternoon before. For some reason, he chose to wait until now to disclose it.

You peek at him, cautiously. While you hear his words, Erik's tone is so measured and calm that it does not seem real. It is as though you are discussing something trivial, like the weather. You know that in the past you caused Erik some degree of mental injury, and perhaps even physical injury as well. You have no reason to believe that is in any way related to what is happening now. The guilt you feel is involuntary, and because it is so unfamiliar, you do not know what to do with it. Somehow lying to Thor or banishing your father to Earth never elicited the same degree of remorse, maybe because you were genuinely angry with them at the time, or because on some level you felt that they deserved to suffer. Certainly, you regretted it later, just not enough to actually do anything about it. When your mother died, you felt some abstract sense of responsibility. But then she was gone. She was not standing before you; the way Erik is now.

You will yourself to speak, before your more rational side can prevent you from doing so.

"It was a dreadful thing I did to you," you say, starring down into your cup.

Your hair is still slightly damp from when you showered recently. It hangs loosely, framing your face. As the steam from your tea rises, it causes tiny beads of moisture to collect on the tip of your nose.

He appears confused by your comment.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

You glance at him briefly, through the curtain of your black locks.

It strikes you as somewhat absurd that you never discussed it before. It was almost as though there were some kind of unspoken agreement between you. And you were more than willing to let it fade deep into the background, like all things better off left alone.

You consider the weight of what he just shared. You know that at time like this, a more decent person might offer words of comfort or encouragement. They might even rise from their seat. Certainly they would make eye contact. It is shameful...you want to summon some compassion for him, some measure of understanding. Because after all he has done for you, he deserves that much. And yet you find that you can think only of yourself and your own culpability.

Erik leans against the counter, peering down into the sink.

"That was a long time ago," he returns, slowly. "I'm alright."

You wonder if he is being deliberately obtuse.

"Except that you are _not_ alright."

His voice sounds strained.

"Whatever it is you need to say, just say it."

"Is this my doing?" you ask, abruptly.

You hope that will be enough. You really do not wish to expound. You want him to piece it together. You mean to wait. But too many seconds pass and you grow impatient. You are disgusted by your own restlessness. Like the guilt, it is unfamiliar.

"I need to know," you clarify.

"Well...no one really knows what causes it," he rambles. "I mean...It's not genetic."

You nod. But you do not understand, not really. You know very little about Midgardian illnesses, or their individual implications. You wait for the other man to finally show something resembling anger, or at least scold you for your untimely self-preoccupation. He does not.

"There were signs," Erik shares, "long before I even met you...little things."

You rub your fingers back and forth across the ceramic surface of the teacup. The liquid inside it has been poured recently enough that it is still uncomfortably hot to the touch.

Erik slowly approaches the table and sits down in one of the empty chairs.

"You weren't in your right mind," he states, frankly.

"I knew what I was doing," you assert. It feels true enough, even if there is some part of you that realizes it isn't.

"Yes," Erik counters, with mild sarcasm, "you had _everything_ under control."

You wince slightly at the word, _control_. You remember Thor confronting you on Earth. _Who controls the would be king?_ You never got to tell him. You pondered it, of course. But when he made no further inquiries about the reason for your presence, you considered that it may not really matter to him why you were there...only that you had dared to set foot upon that which he believed to be his domain. You feared that no explanation would have been sufficient to win him over. Thus, you concluded that there was no reason to unburden yourself. Especially if it would only earn you more derision.

Erik is nothing like Thor, however. If you were to tell him what happened, what _really_ happened, he would probably believe you. Though you could not imagine disclosing such a thing to anyone. You certainly could not imagine continuing to live alongside them, afterwards. You do not mind being despised. You do not mind being feared. But you could not tolerate being an object of pity.

"I took action that affected you adversely," you maintain. "Does it really matter why?"

Erik smiles, sadly.

"I'm a scientist. The _why_ always matters. Sometimes it's the _only_ thing that matters."

You find yourself growing frustrated by his refusal to lay blame. It is unnatural not to hold accountable those who have done you harm.

"It's quite the thing," he muses, "having someone else in your head."

"Yeah," you agree, softly. You have no idea where he is going with this. "I suppose it would be."

"It took me a few years to sort it all out, to feel like myself again. But I eventually did."

"I can imagine," you admit.

Except that you do not have to imagine. You know all too well what it is to have your mind invaded and your will bent. There is no greater violation.

"It was like there were all these voices in my brain, all competing for my attention, all telling me what to do. At the time, I couldn't tell them apart. It was just noise."

As Erik speaks you stare at the tea in your cup, focus on the way the light from the kitchen lamp is reflecting off its surface. Somehow...you just know. You know that it is coming, even before he says it. And yet, it is no less a shock.

"Amidst all that clamor," he confesses, "there was this quieter voice, completely unique from the rest. It wasn't a voice of rage or hate, but of pain and sorrow...and fear."

There is no longer any room for doubt, for you know full well to whom he is referring. It is unbearable to hear him casually referencing your victim-hood, especially after you went to such great lengths to conceal it. There is a slight ringing in your ears. You grip your teacup firmly with both hands, savoring the burn. Unlike everything else you are feeling; the physical pain is familiar.

"Don't..." you mutter, under your breath.

You close your eyes, still holding your cup. It is disappointing, how quickly your hands adjust to the heat and the physical discomfort subsides. You suddenly feel like a fool, like you missed something that should have been readily apparent. You knew at the time that there were others in there, others who were being controlled by the stone. You recruited hundreds of them yourself. But you thought them primitive and thus, assumed they had no deeper awareness of what was taking place.

" _Don't_ what?" he inquires, sounding genuinely confused.

"I lie in a bed of my own making," you assert, stiffly. "I caution you...spare no sympathy for me."

"None of us are innocent, Loki."

The ringing in your ears returns. You consider squeezing the teacup, squeezing it so tightly that it shatters into tiny pieces. Though you know they would not be sharp enough or strong enough to pierce your tough skin, you picture your fingers and palms being reduced to a bloody mess from all the little shards. You breathe deeply until the urge passes.

"I know that you want to believe that you and I are the same. But we are not. Not by the furthest stretch of your imagination."

He folds his hands and waits for you to explain.

"I was no babe in the woods," you offer. "I was bitter and foolish and thirsty for revenge. Such characteristics...ripen one for the taking."

"But you _were_...taken," he says, pointedly.

"It is a figure of speech," you counter, unsure of how to make him understand. "It is not as simple as you make it out to be. I was...corrupted _long_ before I met Thanos."

He does not bother to conceal his skepticism.

"Is that so?"

"You _know_ what I am," you insist. You pause before asking, "don't you?"

"I know that you are Loki of Asgard."

"But what more than that?"

You shudder as you recall your confrontation with Odin, your horror at watching him collapse...unsure whether it your fault, whether you could even touch him without causing him harm.

" _Frost Giant_ , Thor called it. Is that right? From the realm of Jötunheim."

You grit your teeth at his bluntness, how openly he speaks of something so dark and distasteful.

"Yes," you confirm, with obvious repulsion.

"The people on Earth often thought of one another as being savage in comparison to themselves. The natives of this land, for instance...the Europeans believed them to be unclean, uncivilized creatures who engaged in ritual sacrifice and cannibalism."

"What is your point?"

"The point is, they were wrong. While there have been civilizations on this planet that have engaged in such behaviors, there is no race among us that is inherently savage."

"But you are all still the same species. It is not the same thing at all."

"You believe that you are inherently savage, because you were raised to see Frost Giants as such."

"Because they are," you huff.

He actually laughs.

"Do you even hear yourself? You are _not_ a savage. You drink your tea with a damn saucer."

You growl at the absurdity of his reasoning.

"And this beautiful thing," he adds, smoothing his hand along the surface of the table. "Does this look like a work of _savagery?_ "

You know that he means well. But you find his conclusion reductive.

"Believe me when I tell you...if you were to see my true form, you would look upon me with disgust."

He is undaunted.

"Then, show it to me."

You almost gasp at the ludicrousness of his request.

"No...I cannot."

"Cannot or _will_ not?"

"I _cannot_. When Odin found me, I was but an infant. I was remade in his image. I am not able to return to my true form without the aid of…dark magic."

He regards your words for a moment.

"What makes you think I would look upon you with disgust?"

You glare at him. You do not understand why he is forcing you to state that which should be painfully obvious.

"It would be…most unattractive."

"You're concerned about ugliness. Bigotry is ugly, Loki. Self-loathing is ugly."

"You do not understand…"

"But I _do_ understand."

"Stop it," you warn.

"Would that be so terrible if it wasn't your fault?" he demanded. "Would it be so terrible to admit that something happened to you that you couldn't do anything about?"

"Look," you say, stifling your irritation, "whatever you sensed in there...you were afforded but a mere glimpse, and a rather distorted one at that."

He still seems unconvinced.

"Yeah, that's what I believed too, at first."

"Oh," you scoff, "I suppose something changed your mind?"

"Actually, yes."

You cannot fathom what that something might be. You stare at him, waiting for him to enlighten you.

"When Thor came back to Earth to be with Jane," he reveals, "he believed that you were dead. He wouldn't speak of what happened in New York, or the events that followed. He spoke only of the person you were before, of the brother he had known. I think perhaps it was his way of coping. But the more I heard about you...I eventually began to understand that was far more to you than what I had seen."

You remember Thor claiming to have grieved for you. At the time, you dismissed it as a lie, or at the very least an exaggeration. Somehow you could not bring yourself to accept the possibility that your brother might have considered your death a genuine loss.

"And you shared this realization with him?"

"I meant to. But then he was gone again and I never got the chance."

You wonder how differently things might have unfolded, had Thor been aware of your history with Thanos. He would not have believed it, had it come from your lips. If it had come from someone else, however, perhaps your brother would still be alive. Perhaps your parents would still be alive. Perhaps Asgard and its people would still be intact.

But you cannot hold Erik accountable for these things, regardless of what action he did or did not take. Even if he had such power, he would not have been aware of it. He is blameless in all of this.

Thus, you are quite perplexed when you hear him say, "forgive me, please."

You can scarcely believe your ears. He is the injured party and yet he is offering you his apologies. You bite your lip, letting the soft skin drag against your bottom teeth. When you first came to stay with Erik, you thought him a fool to consider extending hospitality to you. It made no sense at all. It was bizarre, how effortlessly you fell into a rhythm with one another. It was too easy. You could not trust it. While your host imposed no time limit on the arrangement, you never planned to stay long. But days turned into weeks, and months became years. And you kept running out of reasons to leave. Your attempts to test Erik's resolve were so gently diffused, that you ultimately gave up trying to alienate him.

You do not understand him at all. His behavior does not make sense. He has known this about you all this time. He could have used such information to control you. He could have used it to humiliate you. Yet he did not.

"No," you declare, "it is _I_ who should be seeking your forgiveness."

"That's not necessary."

All at once you begin to ramble.

"I...I... _know_ not why you continue tolerate my presence...I cannot imagine what could..."

"Listen to me," Erik interrupts, softly. " _Really_ listen."

"I _am_ listening."

"Forgiveness is not permission, Loki. It's not consent. It's a refusal to hold one hostage in your heart. I hold no hostages. That was my choice and I made it long ago."

"It is one thing to forgive someone their transgressions," you rationalize. "It is another thing entirely to render yourself vulnerable to additional injury by...bringing them into your private dwelling."

"That's true," he agrees. "And I wish I had a logical explanation for you. But I don't."

"I do not understand," you whisper.

"Four years ago, when Thanos came...all those people just disappeared into thin air. So many people were gone, just like that. And I had a peculiar realization. I realized I was relieved that my son was already gone. Because I didn't think I could bear it...to watch the world get torn in half like that and just wonder where my child was, whether he was alive or dead, whether he was hurt or suffering. I was grateful to have been spared that burden."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"I couldn't imagine Lars out in the world, alone. He'd be about your age, you know. Well...the age you appear to be, anyway. I heard you in there, crying out for..." He pauses, momentarily overcome with emotion. "I guess I realized that you were someone's child too."

You swallow hard against the sudden tightness in your throat. You often suspected that any affinity Erik seemed to have for you was merely the result of misplaced grief. Erik, as many people do, longs for that which he cannot have. And thus, he deemed you an acceptable substitute, a proxy through which he could satisfy an unfulfilled obligation to his actual progeny. You are not sure what to think. You are not sure how to feel. The idea that Erik might regard you with the same degree of affection as he would his own offspring makes you uncomfortable. Because you know from experience that it can only lead to disappointment for you both.

"The forgiveness you should be seeking is your own," he says. "But that's a choice that _you_ have to make. Only you can release yourself from the chains that bind you."

You know that those words are intended to be a comfort. But instead they hurt. Only your mother ever spoke to you with such tenderness, such compassion. Erik does not force. He does not demand. He asks of you only that which you are willing to give...which is far too often nothing at all. He takes you as you are. You once believed him a fool. But what if he is not? What if his strength is in his mercy and his humility? What if he comprehends what you are and truly does not care?

For the first time that morning you really look at his face. There are tears in his eyes. But he is more relaxed than ever, strangely at peace for someone who just received a terminal diagnosis.

The two of you sit quietly for several minutes.

"You'll die?" you ask, at last.

He nods.

"Eventually."

"When?"

"There's really no way to know," Erik replies, with a shrug. "A few years, I guess. Maybe less."

When you finally let go of your cup, you regard the tender flesh of your palms. You can still feel the heat coming off of them. You know that the redness will quickly fade, and you will be left with no permanent injury. It strikes you as horribly ironic, that your body can endure almost any sort of trauma, while your heart still refuses to mend.

"I'm sorry," you say, meekly, "truly."

Erik sighs.

"It's not your fault."


	7. Chapter 7

_February 26, 2024_

You set the razor on the side of the sink and reach for a towel. You dab at Erik's cheeks a few times, before determining that the cloth material is far too dry to properly dislodge all the little bits of hair and foam. You rise and turn the knobs on the sink, wetting the towel under the tap. Then you sit back down and make another attempt. After a few more swipes, Erik's face finally looks clean.

"Yes," you proclaim, examining your work, "I think you're ready for Nobel."

Erik laughs raucously at your comment. You know not whether he is truly as amused or if it is a conditioned response. There is really no way to be sure. His mirth quickly fades, however. It is not at all uncommon for his moods to change drastically from one moment to the next. But you cannot help noticing that he is incredibly somber.

"What's wrong now, hmm?"

You stand up once more and hold the towel over the sink, wringing it tightly with both hands. When it is no longer dripping, you deposit it into the bin marked _soiled linens_.

"Be...here?" Erik asks.

" _Be here?_ " you echo. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You _..._ " he amends, slowly, "be... _here_."

"I don't understand. Will I be here when?"

He appears frustrated. Speaking is incredibly difficult for him, and he must expend a great deal of effort just to utter even the simplest of phrases. You certainly do not wish to cause him any additional distress. But you genuinely have no idea what he is trying to say.

He leans forward, takes a deep breath, and issues his reply.

"When...I... _die."_

The words hit you like a punch in the gut. Outside of sharing his initial diagnosis, Erik never spoke openly of his impending doom. You never discussed it. There is no way to predict exactly when Erik will expire. Somehow it did not occur to you that you might not be here to witness it.

You are rather abruptly confronted with the full depth of your compartmentalization. You have no qualms about coming to the hospital to visit Erik, signing any necessary legal paperwork or even tending to some of his basic needs. So long as you do not have to ponder why he is actually here. This room is the last place he will ever live, his bed the last bed he will ever sleep in, this air the last air he will ever breathe. There is something morbid about it.

And then there is the other matter...that which you've so deftly avoided contemplating since the moment you first suspected Erik was unwell. What will happen to you, once he is gone? Where will you go? Surely, you cannot continue as you have been. Living on Earth requires some measure of currency...something of value to exchange for goods and services. Presently, all your expenses are being paid automatically, the funds for which drawn directly from Erik's bank account. But that is only a temporary arrangement. And even if it continues after Erik's death, those funds will eventually run out.

It has always been in your nature to prepare for all possible contingencies. And yet, for some reason, you have not. And you know not whether it is because you are sincerely terrified of the future...or because you genuinely do not care what becomes of you. Both possibilities are equally unpleasant.

"Snart," Erik adds, when you do not answer.

You recognize that word. For it means the same thing in Norwegian as it does in Swedish... _soon_.

He does not take his eyes off of you. It is obvious that he is evaluating your reaction.

"Don't say that," you scold, dispassionately.

You turn away from him, so that he cannot see your face. You carefully pluck the razor from the water and dump the basin's contents into the sink. You take your time rinsing the blade and wiping it dry. There is a brief flash of light as it disappears from your hand...stored away safely until you have use for it again.

It is only out of sheer habit that you aim to appear nonchalant. Even in his current state, Erik is not fooled. At this point, whatever facade you maintain is purely for the benefit of your own ego.

You curse yourself for being so weak, for regarding a subject as routine as mortality with such childish denial. You have witnessed plenty of death in your lifetime, probably more than most creatures. Humans are fragile, their life spans limited. There is no reason to pretend otherwise. And yet, here you are again, clinging to another of your artfully crafted charades. _Cast enough illusions_ , your mother said, _and you risk forgetting what is real_. And what could possibly be more _real_ than death?

He is waiting for you to acknowledge his question. But you have no suitable response. His attention span has waned considerably. And so, you give him a few minutes, in the hope that he will become distracted from the current subject matter. When you turn to face him again, you are relieved to discover that he is no longer staring so intently. Instead he is studying his fingers, which are awkwardly curled around the arms of his wheelchair.

When you initially came to live with Erik, one of the first things you noticed about him was that he suffered from a persistent and unpleasant stiffness in his hands. _Arthritis_ , he called it...a condition that is apparently exclusive to Midgardians.

While Asgardians did not suffer from arthritis, they did experience some degree of wear and tear on their bodies. Hence, they had not been entirely without a need for anti-inflammatory treatments. You prepared such a brew for Erik, inspired by one of your mother's recipes. On Earth, of course, you did not have the same assortment of flora at your disposal. Some slight adjustments had to be made. It was designed to be consumed by mouth, as one would a beverage. You were certain to flavor it well, in order to disguise its true purpose. Though you found that Erik had needed little convincing, as he was always eager to sample new things.

The remedy was quick acting. But since you were seeking to avoid eliciting suspicion, you waited a few days to question about its effectiveness.

 _"How are your hands?"_ you inquired, one morning. _"Still stiff?"_

You spoke as casually as possible, licking your thumb and turning the page of your book.

Except that he had already spent enough time with you. He had gleaned that you did not engage in small talk, nor did you say anything without specific cause.

Erik flexed his fingers, testing their range of motion. You were pleased to note that he did so with ease.

 _"That tea,"_ he concluded, suspiciously, _"it was medicine."_

You did not respond right away. Because you had yet to ascertain whether he was angry or merely curious. Therefore, you did not wish to speak until you were sure which.

 _"You know,"_ Erik stated, frankly, _"you could have just asked."_

Your pulse begin to accelerate. While your eyes were busily skimming the words on the page, you had scanned the same paragraph three times and had absolutely no idea what it read.

 _"You might have said no,"_ you retorted.

Erik regarded your rationalization, gently.

 _"I might have said yes,"_ he pointed out.

You were silent again. Erik was such a mild-mannered person that you found it difficult to gauge his mood. Even if he were upset with you, it was doubtful that he would go to the trouble to say so. You thought it was entirely possible that the other man truly despised you and was simply too meek to admit it.

 _"I'm not angry,"_ Erik offered. _"I know that your intentions were good."_

You looked up, blinking in surprise at how efficiently he had sensed your unspoken question. You wondered whether you had become transparent, or if Erik was genuinely that perceptive.

 _"But you shouldn't dose people without their consent,"_ he added.

 _"Not even for their own good?"_ you pried.

 _"Not even then."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _"Because_ _people have the right to decide what happens to them."_

You nodded, respectfully. Though you did not agree. Most people knew not what was best for them, and Midgardians were no exception. It was logical to rely on a more well informed or experienced party. People of this realm were in a constant state of self-sabotage and self-delusion. You did not see what harm there was in engaging in an occasional intervention on their behalf.

Asgard had been equipped with its own trained healers. While you were indeed capable, you had never become proficient in such a craft. You had dabbled before, under your mother's tutelage. Repairing a cut or a scrape had been no great task. But outside of some rather unique circumstances, you had never healed any wounds or ailments of a profound nature.

You began making attempts to heal Erik shortly after his diagnosis. You reasoned that it was unlikely that you could reverse the damage completely. But even minor reparations might slow the progression down some. Given the severity of his illness, treating it demanded a bit more than a simple elixir. The process was far more draining than you had expected. You quickly learned that, due to the physiological complexity of the brain, healing it was a bit beyond your abilities. Your first few endeavors merely left you weak and disoriented. When you increased the strength of your efforts, you spent days recovering afterwards.

Erik was no fool. And it did not take him very long to figure out what you were up to. You argued about it, of course, as much as anyone can truly _argue_ with Erik about anything. You ultimately concluded that a proper exploration of the damage would involve an invasion Erik's subconscious mind. And while you could easily do such a thing without his consent, you found that you could not bring yourself to commit such a blatant violation of trust.

You bitterly recall how you chided your brother's unexpected attachment to Jane Foster. At the time, you saw human life as something brief and insignificant. It puzzled you as to why Thor would even consider yoking himself to someone who would only expire in a matter of decades...why he would willingly subject himself to that loss. _A hundred years is but a heartbeat,_ you told him. _You'll never be ready._

Although Erik is only three months post his 68th birthday, he suffers from a terminal, neuro-degenerative disease. There are no treatments and no cures. There is only awaiting the inevitable and keeping him comfortable in the meantime.

Prior to Erik's relocation to the hospital, you often accompanied him to his appointments. Especially when his symptoms grew more severe, and he no longer trusted himself to operate a vehicle. Typically, you would remain in the lobby for the duration. Erik sometimes requested your presence during diagnostic procedures, particularly if they were going to be lengthy or boring. Though, usually, he did not. He rarely concealed anything from you. And thus, you were content honor his privacy.

One afternoon, you were approached by Erik's physician. Erik was not with him. When you glanced around, you noticed that the two of you were alone. All of the other chairs were empty.

He was a slight man, shorter in stature than the average Midgardian male. Physically, he seemed far too young to have acquired a specialty in anything, let alone the human brain. The smoothness of his milky white jaw implied he may not even possess the ability to grow facial hair. Yet, he carried himself with the poise and grace of one far more advanced in years. You examined his ID badge. It bore a small photograph. Underneath it were his name and title, _Dr. Joseph Chen: Neurologist_.

 _"Mr. Odinson?"_

While he greeted you politely, there was an undeniable element of trepidation. You had encountered him on several occasions already. Though he had never spoken to you directly. And he had never said your name aloud.

You were not really in the mood to speak to anyone. You took your time closing your book and setting it aside, before finally awarding him your full attention.

 _"What can I do for you?"_

Dr. Chen seated himself in the chair next to yours.

 _"You look tired,"_ he observed.

 _"I'm not,"_ you replied, automatically.

You were initially puzzled as to what might have prompted him to make such a peculiar statement. But you quickly realized that you actually were tired, more so than you had been in a long time. You had not slept in days, not properly anyway. And you had grown accustomed to leaving your outward appearance unaltered for Erik's sake that you had somehow forgotten that other people could see you.

 _"It's just the two of you, right?"_ he pried.

 _"I beg your pardon?"_

 _"You and your father...you live alone?"_

 _"He's not..."_ you began.

You stopped yourself mid-sentence. Your denial served no purpose. Unlike so many lies you had told during your lifetime, this one was innocuous enough. You had learned fairly quickly that there was no point in contesting Erik's delusions. You knew not his reasons. But you had accepted that some part of him needed to believe that you were his son.

 _"Where is he?"_ you asked, instead.

 _"He's with the nurse. Would this be a good time for us to talk?"_

 _"Talk?"_ you returned, curiously. _"About what?"_

 _"Given the rapid progression of his symptoms, I thought we should_ _discuss the contents of his advanced directive."_

 _"Advanced directive?"_

 _"His living will?"_

You had signed a great deal of paperwork for Erik, prior to his relocation to the hospital. He had asserted that your involvement was merely a formality, necessary only because he had no immediate family, and that you need not concern yourself with the fine print. Because he had presented it all to you at once, you had not bothered to read every individual page. Especially since the areas requiring your signature had been highlighted in advance for your convenience. What little you did bother to read was tedious and redundant. Try as you might, however, you could not recall Erik ever having used the phrase _advanced directive_.

It seemed like something you should have known about. And you did not wish to admit that you had been so reckless as to sign a legal document without reading it in its entirety.

 _"Ah, yes,"_ you responded, smoothly. _"What of it?"_

 _"As you know,_ _he has assigned you durable power of attorney. And t_ _he directive states that when your father's symptoms become severe enough that he require full time care, he should be relocated to our inpatient facility."_

 _"Why are you telling me this?"_

 _"Well, as his physician, it is my opinion that he is no longer capable of making decisions for himself."_

 _"So?"_

 _"So...you're his next of kin._ _I can't make any changes to his treatment without your direct consent."_

You were mystified. Because it was one thing for Erik to believe that you were his son. He was unwell, after all. It was another thing entirely to draw up legal paperwork that asserted you as such. You wondered how he had managed it, if his duplicity had been well executed or whether such an action might constitute fraud. Considering the tenuous nature of your residency on Earth, you found it highly unlikely that Erik would put you in a position to incriminate yourself. He had gone to great trouble to arrange so many things in advance. You knew not why he would leave such an important decision in your hands. Your association had been so brief, even by human standards. And as far as you were concerned, you had done nothing during that time to distinguish yourself as someone capable of exercising superior judgment.

While you knew that Erik trusted you, you did not trust yourself...not fully, not with something like this. The physician was convinced that Erik was better off residing at the hospital. And ultimately, you deferred to his wisdom. Nevertheless, you longed for some sort of affirmation that you had made the right choice. The transition was uneventful, however. And as Erik was neither eager nor apprehensive about your decision, there was no affirmation to be had.

You rinse out the plastic basin and put the shaving kit back in the cupboard, over the toilet. You retrieve a jar of lotion that you made from lanolin and tea tree oil.

"Perhaps we could take some air," you suggest, as you apply the lotion to Erik's face.

Erik rarely leaves his room...or his bed, for that matter. The first floor of the hospital has a large enclosed courtyard with fountains and topiary. While New York is a good deal sultrier than you would prefer, you are willing to subject yourself to a little heat if it means getting Erik outside for a spell.

"Kall," Erik complains, halfheartedly.

"It is not cold," you inform him. "It is a perfectly lovely day out."

Though he does not know what day it is, let alone what season. And you know not whether his obliviousness is fueled by dementia or isolation.

Erik clicks his tongue, as you place the bottle of lotion back in the cabinet.

"Freeze... _ass,"_ he declares, bluntly.

You chuckle at his phrasing. You are mildly amused. But your laugh is forced.

"It is easily twenty degrees outside right now. No part of you is going to freeze. Least of all your ass."

"Cel-see-uss," Erik chirps.

You find it baffling how easily Erik can recall such things, while struggling to perform simple tasks, such as buttoning his shirt or feeding himself.

"Indeed," you ramble. "The Celsius scale was named after a Swede. Ironically, we are in the only damn place on Earth that does not use it."

Erik blinks at you, though he does not respond to your comment. At times it is unclear whether he even comprehends what you are saying.

"I suppose you can put on a sweater," you urge. "What about that hideous, tartan thing you're so fond of?"

"Humph," is Erik's response.

You are eager to engage him in some sort of activity, if not simply to distract you both from his earlier inquiry.

"Or I could read to you from one of your precious journals," you propose. "Not that they're particularly scintillating, mind you..."

"Don't... _need_ ," Erik interrupts, sharply.

He pounds his fist on the side of the sink.

"Din...jävla... _idiot_."

He occasionally swears in Swedish. Some phrases you recognize. Others you do not. Which makes sense, you suppose. Whether Earth acknowledges it or not, all of the North Germanic languages are technically the product of Asgardian influence. You constantly remind yourself that he cannot control what comes out of his mouth, that his outbursts are merely the product of a brain that is no longer functioning as it should.

Erik is quiet for almost a minute. The blank expression on his face gradually morphs into one of confusion.

"What?" he asks.

You shake your head, your lips pressed into a straight line.

"I didn't say anything."

"Sorry," Erik says. He pats your arm, absently. "Sorry...son."

"It's fine," you mumble.

"I...yelled?"

You grit your teeth, before replying, "yeah."

"I'm...sorry."

You sigh.

"It is not your fault."

It seemed like only yesterday that Erik was telling you the same.


	8. Chapter 8

_January 7, 2023_

It is barely eight o'clock, though you have been awake for some time. Erik was particularly restless and up repeatedly throughout the night. He finally settled down shortly after three. You tried to go back to sleep, but ended up just staring at the ceiling for several hours. You got up and dressed before sunrise. You needed the distraction. And so, once you confirmed that Erik was indeed resting soundly, you headed to the garage to work.

At some point before your arrival, Erik installed a speaker system and suspended it from the ceiling in the garage. It is connected to a stereo with a CD player, which he listened to while he toiled away in the study above. Though it has only been about six month since his official diagnosis, Erik no longer ventures up to his study. He still manages to walk. Although his balance is so poor that he struggles to do so without falling. He cannot climb stairs, however. And he cannot concentrate on any anything for more than a few minutes at a time. The study is exactly as he left it...papers strewn about, books and journals arranged in random stacks. It pleases you, although you know not why...that Erik always worked best while mired in chaos, that he did not crave order or perfection or control.

You continue to play the stereo whenever you work in the garage. The lyrics of Earth's contemporary music, much like the poetry of its English Renaissance, focus on the trials of love and mortality. Although Midgardians would probably claim there to be a gaping chasm of difference between them in style, to you the two are practically interchangeable. Erik's taste in music is somewhat eclectic. You find some songs more agreeable than others, of course. Though you mostly play it because you consider it preferable to silence.

Between the stereo and the hum of the lathe, your ears are pleasantly occupied. But you still detect the rumble of the approaching motorcycle.

Steve always greets you with a handshake, a gesture that you consider both awkward and strange. His is a firm, two-handed grip, followed by a gentle slug on the shoulder. Although you are confident that Steve is probably genuine, or at least he believes himself to be, there is something about his behavior that feels phony and rehearsed. He does not bother to call ahead. He simply shows up, about once a month, usually on a Saturday or Sunday. Although he has never arrived quite this early before.

You watch him park his bike at the entrance to the garage. You turn off the lathe you are using and remove your protective face mask.

"It's more than a feeling," Steve announces proudly, after taking off his helmet.

You regard his statement with a frown. You reach for the remote that controls the stereo and use it to lower the volume.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The song," Steve explains, dismounting his bike. "I uh...I've been trying to research all the music I missed in the last seventy years or so. A buddy of mine played this one for me. The band is the name of a city."

You set the remote down on the side of your bench and slowly approach him.

"Boston," you supply...which you know only because Erik enjoyed discussing his music as much as he enjoyed listening to it.

Steve bends down and sets his helmet on the ground next to his bike. He takes a few steps forward, until you are less than a meter apart. You brace yourself for what is coming. He grabs your hand and pumps it up and down, enthusiastically. You do your best to respond appropriately. He smiles at you, and you force yourself to smile back. You know that he means you no harm. Yet you are still relieved when he lets go.

"Where's the doctor?" he asks.

You bob your head towards the direction of the house.

"Asleep."

Steve gestures at his bike.

"I noticed I was experiencing a little pull when I took off this morning."

"Pull?"

"Like a jerking motion."

You sigh. While motorcycles are fairly simple contraptions, and repairing them no great task, they are hardly your area of expertise.

"You're probably too heavy on the throttle," you offer, halfheartedly.

"I don't think that's it."

"I suppose it could be the clutch," you suggest.

"You checked the clutch a few months ago and said it was fine."

"So, I did," you concur.

"Could it be the chain?"

"Possibly, if it's too loose...or the sprockets could be worn out."

He sounds doubtful of your assessment.

"Maybe."

You know not what purpose it serves, this little exercise. You are convinced that Steve does not trust you, although he would be loath to admit it. He has a unique energy, at least compared to the other men of his realm. While he is friendly, he is noticeably guarded. There is a darker portion of himself that he is careful to keep concealed...either for his own benefit or the benefit of others. He lost everyone, you realize. Not once, but twice. You have some idea of what that sort of experience might do to a person. Even so...you cannot imagine that his need for companionship is dire enough that he would be willing to seek your company in order to fulfill it. You have no idea what motivates him to continue interacting with you at all.

You put your hands on your hips and stare the motorcycle.

"Are we going to keep pretending that you're here because you actually need my help to fix that thing, and not because you want to be sure I am not secretly plotting to take over this precious rock of yours?"

Steve is amused by your inquiry.

"Is that what you think...that I'm checking up on you?"

"Aren't you?"

He seems mildly offended.

"No, I'm not."

"You're an awfully long way from home," you point out. "Have they run out of mechanics in Brooklyn?"

"No, they haven't. And I don't mind the ride. It's scenic."

You know for a fact that in order to arrive in Solvay this early in the morning, it would still have been dark when Steve departed Brooklyn...thus, no scenery to appreciate for the better part of the journey. But you decline to mention it...because doing so would imply a level of interest in his personal affairs that you generally prefer not to convey.

"I would not know."

"You still don't drive, eh?"

It is not that you mind driving. Automobiles are not terribly complicated to operate, and the United States government graciously issued you a license, along with some other forms of legal identification. Knowing that even a minor gaffe can result in a revocation of your citizenship, you feel compelled to stay close to home as much as possible. You do not wish to risk incarceration, now that Erik is so dependent on you for assistance. Still, you find it ironic that the powers that be feel that you cannot be trusted to own what they consider to be _weapons_ , but they have no problem with you getting behind the wheel of an automobile. Especially since, from what you understand, automobiles are a frequent source of both injury and death for humans.

"I drive all the time," you provide. "Just not across the entire state of New York."

"Why not?"

"Because I have nowhere in specific that I need to go, and it is hardly worth the risk."

"What risk is that?" Steve queries.

You recall your interrogation...and the words of the man who was shrouded in darkness.

 _"I say we put him in the Fridge."_

"Your government went to the trouble to build some enormous facilities for housing beings such as myself. I'm sure they'd prefer not to have done so in vain."

He looks upon you, bewildered.

"You've been pardoned. You know that, right? And most of those facilities have been shut down."

You issue a disapproving click of your tongue.

"You cannot possibly be _that_ naïve."

"Even if you're right," he counters, "people don't get arrested for traffic violations."

"You obviously don't watch the news," you assert. "Just the other day a boy was shot dead by police during a routine traffic stop, because he reached for his cellular device. Of course, now that the prison system is no longer a profitable industry, such occurrences are becoming less common."

Steve's devotion to his country, with all of its peculiar practices, often borders on zealous. Which is a potential source of entertainment, whenever the mood strikes you. While he raises an eyebrow at your criticism, however, he refuses to take your bait.

"So, your solution is to stay in the house all the time?"

"I'll have you know that I go outside every day," you declare.

He gestures to the space around you.

"To the garage?"

"I take Erik to his doctor at least once a week."

"That's it? You don't go shopping?"

"We have our groceries delivered. Except for the meat."

"Where do you go for meat?"

"There's shop not far from here that sells only grass-fed beef and free-range poultry. It is well within walking distance."

"Why can't you just buy your meat at the grocery store?"

"Most of the meat peddled by grocers is full of toxic chemicals."

"Really? I never noticed."

"That's because you're full of toxic chemicals too."

Steve actually laughs at your quip. Which is not quite the reaction you were hoping for.

"I couldn't do that," he says, when his amusement fades. "I couldn't stay in one place all the time."

"Your apartment is in the same neighborhood you lived in, as a child," you observe.

His face brightens.

"Oh yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you've mentioned it on numerous occasions. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually pay attention when people speak."

He beams, clearly pleased that you would bother to commit such information to memory.

"Well, I like Brooklyn," Steve replies. "I also like to feel the wind in my hair."

"You could feel it a lot better without the helmet."

"Now that would be against the law."

"Are you really worried about a head injury? You could probably jump from a low flying aircraft and survive, unscathed."

"It's not about safety."

"Of course not. You were an enemy of the state once, weren't you? There's probably a cage with your name on it, too."

"Are you always this dramatic?"

"Sometimes even more so."

Steve kicks at the ground with the toe of his boot.

"If there is, there's nothing I can do about it."

"Nothing you would be _willing_ to do, anyway."

"You know," Steve remarks, pointedly, "I didn't come here to fight with you."

His words imply a warning. But as usual, his tone is soft and non-threatening.

You sigh again, bringing your arms across your chest.

"Did you know that research has apparently indicated that humans inherently gravitate towards people who validate their personal ethos."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Sort of begs the question...why _did_ you come here? Surely it cannot be for vehicle maintenance."

"Why do you need to pick everything apart?"

"The first time we met, you compared me to fascist dictator. Now, you are all about turning the other cheek. That is very _Christian_ of you, I'll admit. Still, I am understandably skeptical of your intentions."

He is quiet for a few seconds, carefully assessing what you said. Unlike so many other people you've encountered, he actually listens. While some part of that is undeniably refreshing, it is also rather annoying.

"We've all made mistakes," he finally says.

"Yes...but as I'm sure you'll agree, some of us have made much bigger mistakes than others."

"I guess I prefer not to compare such things."

"Such benevolence!" you exclaim. "Just one of your many admirable traits, no doubt."

"Why are you doing this?" Steve asks.

He doesn't sound particularly upset. He sounds weary. You know that he wants a serious answer to his question. Unfortunately, you don't have one.

"I'm not doing anything," you mumble.

You would actually prefer it if he were angry. It would be easier to cope with than his persistent attempt to forge some sort of awkward friendship with you. You hate just how relieved you are to have someone to talk to, even if that person is Steve Rogers. And you hate that your instinct is to alienate him. You just can't help yourself.

"If you really must know," he discloses, "it wasn't my idea...getting you out. Is that what you want to hear?"

That intrigues you, somewhat.

"Whose idea was it?"

"Banner spoke rather aggressively on your behalf."

You worked closely with Banner, albeit only briefly. And you exchanged only a handful of words during that time. While he was visibly wary of you, you sensed neither animosity nor favor. You certainly would not have pegged him as an advocate for your freedom.

"Missing in action, last I heard. Isn't that right?"

"Supposedly."

"I was not under the impression that dear Bruce's opinion carried that much weight with your government."

"It probably wouldn't," he confirms. "It did, however, carry a great deal of weight with me."

Your eyes narrow as you picture the two men discussing you. You can only speculate as to what was said. You would prefer not to know.

"I don't know what he told you…"

"He told me enough."

"Assuming he was being truthful."

"Even if he wasn't," Steve confesses, "I saw the transcript of the interview you gave in D.C."

Your mouth falls open in surprise. You quickly shut it. You know that you were interrogated. But your memory of that process continues to remain murky and distorted. Bits and pieces have floated to the surface, the rest remaining safely tucked in your subconscious. You rarely allow yourself to ponder it...how they extracted even your most well guarded secrets with ease.

 _"Tell us more about your mother."_

 _"My mother?"_

 _"Yes...how did she die?"_

You shudder at the reminder. You know not how to feel about what he just shared. Because if Steve was privy to any portion of that interview, he already knows how weak and pathetic you truly are. What little of it you can remember still haunts you.

"I...recall not what I told them," you say, quietly.

He replies, hesitantly.

"I know that there were...extenuating circumstances."

" _Extenuating circumstances,_ " you repeat. "You make it sound as though I canceled an engagement because of inclement weather."

"It's just that..." Steve pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "most of my friends are dead."

You scoff at his phrasing. You've never really had friends. When you were but a child, Thor's friends were your friends. And they were not even really your _friends_. They were just people who shared your space...people who tolerated you for your brother's sake.

"Is that what we are, Steve... _friends_?"

"You'd prefer that I hate you?"

"Oh, are those my only options?"

"No...and I don't hate anyone."

"Of course, you don't," you tease. "You're a _great_ _guy_."

It matters not what comes out of your mouth. Steve typically does everything in his power to neutralize any potential conflict between you. Since you do actually spend most of your time confined to the property, irritating him is about all the excitement you can get.

He must be tired today, though. Because he attempts to deescalate by merely changing the subject.

"So, how bad is he?"

You know that he is speaking of Erik. But you are no more prepared to discuss this topic than you were the previous one. And thus, your reply is evasive.

"Whatever do you mean?" you inquire.

He tilts his head, incredulously.

"I know he's sick, Loki. He told me."

You continue to be cryptic, although you know not why.

" _Sick_ is a relative term."

"I know that he's going to die," Steve clarifies.

"You're all going to die," you reply, blandly. "Even _I_ will die, eventually."

"Fine," he retorts. "You don't have to tell me. I understand if you don't want to talk about it."

His attempt to manipulate you is amateurish at best. And yet, it is still effective.

"He's moody and incontinent. He keeps trying to walk...but because he cannot balance well for very long, sometimes he falls. He is forgetful and delusional. And sometimes he wakes me up in the middle of the night, so I can search the house. Is that explicit enough for you?"

He ignores your cutting conclusion and focuses on the content of your statement instead.

"Why would he want to search the house?" he asks.

"He is convinced that we have an intruder."

"Do you?"

"No. I told you, he's delusional."

"Well, what do you do?"

You glare at him, dumbly.

"I search the house."

"Even though you know no one is there?"

When it first happened, you were in that in between state, where it is difficult to tell whether something is real or merely a part of your dream. It probably didn't help that you'd just completed a three day stretch without sleep. You were then ripped rather unpleasantly from your slumber to discover Erik sitting beside you. Erik had entered your room a few times, over the years. But he had never done so during the night. And he had never sat down on your bed.

 _"Someone's in the house,"_ Erik whispered, with no small degree of alarm.

 _"What?"_

Once you processed the deeper significance behind Erik's declaration, you were considerably more alert. Normally when he touched you, it was a quick, friendly gesture. The way that Erik was crouched over you, gripping tightly onto your shoulder, he was obviously afraid.

 _"What are you talking about?"_

You sat straight up and gave him your full attention.

 _"I heard a noise,"_ Erik shared. _"I think someone's in the house."_

He must have realized that he'd been holding onto your shoulder for a good deal longer than necessary. Because he released his grip, patting your arm gently before withdrawing his hand.

 _"Where did you hear it?"_ you whispered back.

 _"I don't know."_

 _"Well, what did it sound like?"_

For a moment it seemed almost as though he was concerned that might not believe him. You were all too familiar with that feeling. It was, perhaps, what motivated you to take him so seriously in the first place.

 _"I don't know,"_ he said, once more. _"It just sounded like a person."_

You threw back your blanket. It was the beginning of winter and you were wearing long, thermal underwear. Typically, if you left your room and didn't feel like getting dressed, you would put on a robe or some slippers. Somehow, it felt inappropriate to bother with either. If there really was an intruder in the house, then time was of the essence. You turned your bedside lamp on and scanned the room, carefully. Nothing was out of place. The windows were all closed, and they lock from the inside.

 _"Stay here,"_ you told Erik, before creeping out into the hallway.

The house wasn't terribly large, and you were able to search it fairly quickly. You made your way downstairs and peeked out the front window. You even checked outside. You conjured yourself a torch and shined it all around the yard. You walked around the perimeter of the property. But you did not see or hear anything.

 _"There's nothing,"_ you informed him, when you came back inside.

 _"I heard something,"_ Erik insisted.

 _"Well, I didn't see anyone. Maybe it was an animal. An owl or a deer, perhaps."_

He just stood there, his face pinched with distress.

 _"Do you think we could just stay up for a bit?"_

You glanced at the clock and saw that sunrise was still at least a few hours away. It was not unusual for you to stay awake all night. But you had never known Erik to do so. You sat back down on the edge of your bed. It was only then you noticed that Erik was rocking back and forth, ever so slightly. His eyebrows were knit with worry. You realized that he really did think that someone might be in the house. He was genuinely afraid.

 _"There's no one in the vicinity, but you and I,"_ you said, reassuringly. _"If there were, I would sense it."_

Erik sighed.

 _"And I've secured all the doors and windows,"_ you added.

 _"Yeah,"_ was all he said.

He wanted something from you. Although you knew not what.

 _"Uh…I suppose we can make some tea or something…"_ you eventually offered.

You shrug at Steve's question.

"It's not that big of a house. It is far easier than arguing with him. And he usually goes right back to bed afterwards."

"Still," he replies, "that sounds kind of rough."

"His physician gave him some kind of medication to relax him and help him sleep. But he is unwilling to use it."

"Why?"

"He said it makes him feel foggy... _stoned_ , is the word he used. A peculiar euphemism."

"You haven't tried to talk him into it?"

"One does not _talk_ Erik into doing things. I believe he's what your people call a _free spirit_."

"Really?" he asks. "I remember you being pretty persuasive."

You recall your first encounter with Steve Rogers. You were armed with the scepter, ordering a crowd of frightened people to kneel before you. The scepter's power was so great...it allowed you to control others with ease, Erik included. It occurs to you that Steve might actually believe you would do so again. To secure your own personal comfort, no less. It would not be terribly complicated to render Erik unconscious, of course, with or without the medication. But he would wake eventually. And he would know what you had done. The thought makes you positively ill.

"I'm not going to browbeat him into sedating himself," you growl, "if that is what you're implying."

"That's not what I was implying at all."

"If you say so."

He seems to gather that he committed some sort of faux pas, because he waits a moment before speaking again.

"You don't mind waking up at night?"

"I don't need that much sleep," you lie.

While you possess vastly superior physiology, you are still an organic being and you require some measure of rest in order to function.

But things have changed drastically in just the last few weeks. It has been at least a month since you slept in your own room. Due to the fact that Erik can no longer walk up the stairs, he has relocated himself to the living room. He sleeps on one of the couches, which folds out into a bed. The few hours of rest you managed to get were acquired while you were reclined on the sofa opposite him.

You carry Erik upstairs so that he can bathe himself. Though you have taken to washing your hair in the kitchen sink. It takes far too long to fully disrobe and shower, and you can no longer leave Erik unattended for long. At least in the kitchen you can have him sitting nearby in a chair, where you are able to see and hear what he is doing. Sometimes you even remove your shirt, something you would never have done prior to his diagnosis. It's just as well, as Erik does not appear to notice.

You have systematically removed all sharp and otherwise potentially dangerous objects from inside the house and relocated them to the garage. When you are not in the garage, you pull the door closed and lock it with a padlock. The key you store away with magic, to be retrieved only by yourself.

And while you continue to have your groceries delivered, you have not journeyed to the butcher shop in quite some time. There is no way to complete such a chore with Erik in tow. And leaving him home, alone, is not an option. Your diet, as well as Erik's, now consists of things that are quickly prepared...like toast and fruit. In the name of convenience, you have even resorted to consuming pre-packaged snacks.

But you do not see how any of that is Steve's business.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels.

"No new symptoms, though. That's good, right?"

"For now," you confirm. "It is only a matter of time."

He ventures a little further into the garage and inspects your latest project.

"This is incredible," he says. "You made this?"

"Why do you sound so shocked?"

"I'm not shocked," he maintains. "I'm just impressed."

He continues to study the item, which was originally intended to be a masthead, similar to that one might see on the front of a ship. You know not what it will end up being, or if you will even bother to finish it...now that Erik requires so much direct supervision.

"How do you bend the wood like that?" he asks. "I've never seen anything like it. Do you use magic?"

You laugh out loud at the unexpected inquiry.

"I used my hands, Steve."

You point to the lathe. For the first time since you met him, he actually looks embarrassed.

He gestures casually towards the garden.

"Maybe I don't know much about magic. But know I've never seen anyone working in your yard. And the grass never needs cutting and the flowers are always blooming...even in the winter."

"Well, that's mere child's play," you jest.

He stares back at you with a serious expression.

"Most of what you think of as _magic_ is really just an advanced manipulation of energy," you explain.

He nods.

"Yeah...that makes sense."

"And besides...it is also a relative concept. A lot of the things you can do would be perceived as magic by some."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"But since you asked...some use steam. That works better for larger things, like boats. I prefer to soak the wood."

"What kind of wood is this?"

"Fraxinus Americana...white ash. They say that Yggdrasil, the father of all trees, was an ash. Different woods have different properties of hardness and flexibility. The ash is stubborn and strong. But with the right amount of moisture and heat...it eventually yields."

"How much do you charge for your...services?"

You frown.

"I don't."

"You don't sell any of this stuff?"

"To whom would I sell it?"

"So...this is just a hobby," he concludes.

" _Hobby_ ," you repeat the word, curiously.

"Uh...pastime? For recreation."

"I suppose that is an accurate enough description."

"That's good...that you have something like that."

"Are you looking for a new shield?" you pry. "Somehow I don't think wood would be a practical choice."

He chuckles.

"No, I just...wish I could find a similar way to occupy my time."

You know not what to say. So you remain silent.

He takes a deep breath.

"Um...I know this probably won't mean much to you. But I think what you're doing here is really great."

You wave your hand at the mess behind you.

"Bending wood?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Once again, you are at a loss. You are not accustomed to indiscriminate praise, especially not for something so mundane.

"It's not that great," you say, flatly.

He appears confused by your response.

"Then why the hell are you doing it?"

You sigh. You have asked yourself that same question and still, you have no answers.

You decide that Steve is unlikely to argue with his own words.

"Because," you return, plainly, "it is better than doing nothing."


	9. Chapter 9

_February 26, 2024_

You usually only remain at the hospital for about two hours at at time. But Erik is more lucid than he's been in weeks. And there is something about his question that you found unnerving. Will you be here when he dies? You wonder whether it is possible for Erik to know exactly when he will expire. You reason that he is a man of science and not prone to superstition, nor does he possess powers of divination. And even for those whose existence is brief, _soon_ is a relative term. _Soon_ can mean in a few minutes, later on today, on the morrow, in a fortnight or sometime in the next year.

There is a quick, sharp knock at the door. Immediately afterwards, a young woman in lavender hospital scrubs enters the room and informs Erik that it is time for his shower. When he first relocated to the long-term care facility, one of Erik's chief complaints was that he was only bathed three or four times a week. You breached the issue with one of the hospital administrators, and were met with some minor resistance. They explained to you that older people _don't sweat as much_ , and therefore don't need to be bathed as frequently. Against your better judgement, you utilized some rather distasteful means of persuasion. While you knew at the time that Erik would not have approved of such tactics, you ultimately decided that the ends would justify the means. Suffice to say, immediately afterwards, the staff began bathing Erik daily.

You rise from your seat.

"I believe that is my cue to leave."

"Stay?" Erik pleads.

You grimace at the thought of it. There are some things you don't need to see. Erik being bathed is one of them.

"I've...got a lot of work to do," you say.

It is not really a lie. You do actually have a lot of work to do. You just aren't planning on doing it. And even if some portion of you is concerned that Erik might feel as though you are abandoning him, a much greater portion is eager to retreat to the safety of solitude, where you are not obligated to speak or think about things you would rather not examine too deeply.

In the last few months you have spent more time doing absolutely nothing than in all your previous years combined. Yet, you are more physically exhausted than you have ever been. At night you find yourself unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a stretch. You often wake from nightmares, the content of which you cannot even remember. They leave you with a strange uneasiness, and you end up waiting until the sun rises before you dare attempt to close your eyes again. The only thing you do with any sort of regularity is visit Erik at the hospital. It's the only reason you have to get dressed or to leave the house, or to even get out of bed at all. You've abandoned many household chores in favor of laying about, reading or fiddling with various games on your cellular telephone. While the house is now a great deal messier than you are comfortable with, you cannot seem to bring yourself to tidy it. Laundry and dishes have piled up. Bedclothes have gone unwashed. You have not eaten a proper meal in at least a year. You've even modified your grocery order to include only that which Erik would probably refer to as _junk food_. Moreover, Steve has not come calling in quite some time. And as infuriating as you generally find him, you keep hoping that he will.

The nurse regards Erik as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"Looks like someone got a shave."

Erik does not respond to her statement. Instead he grabs your arm.

"My...son," he tells her, excitedly.

"Yes, I know," she replies.

"He's...a... _god_."

It's such a bizarre, unexpected declaration that you practically choke. You clear your throat several times in an attempt to contain your laughter. While you expend a great deal of effort attempting to maintain a low profile, you know that Erik does not exercise similar discretion. Ambiguous rumors surrounding your identity began circulating the hospital, shortly after Erik arrived here. The nature of the tale depended heavily on Erik's mood. You are certain that at least some portion of the hospital staff is convinced that Erik is descended from Norse deities.

"Is that so?" she asks, skeptically.

"Not...married," he adds, with just a hint of disapproval.

Your amusement is short lived, replaced quickly by immense awkwardness. You cringe and give the nurse an apologetic look.

She just pats Erik on the shoulder.

"He's _very_ handsome. But I'm already taken."

"He's unwell," you blurt out, although you are certain she is well aware. "Taken leave of his senses and all that...doesn't know what he's saying."

You know your explanation is completely unnecessary and you regret it almost immediately. You can feel Erik's eyes on you.

The nurse does not reply to your assessment. She quietly finishes taking Erik's vitals.

"I'll give you two a few minutes," she says.

Then she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

You briefly consider trying to distract Erik by scolding his attempt to play matchmaker. But you decide it is not worth the energy. Erik spent many of your previous visits drawing your attention to eligible females who work in his particular wing of the hospital. You humored him, for the most part, sometimes enduring awkward introductions. It is peculiar to have total strangers evaluating you in any manner, let alone assessing your potential as a mate. Some of them even inquired as to whether you plan to sire children. _There's plenty of time for that,_ you always told Erik, whenever the subject came up. Time is such an important concept to Midgardians. They exist so briefly that the notion of waiting years to do anything practically strikes them as madness. You knew not how to explain that even if you did wish to have children of your own, you are still far too young to begin thinking of such things. Despite your outward appearance, you are a few hundred years shy of full sexual maturity.

On Earth, there is food enough for everyone, yet many starve to death. People in less industrialized nations continue to perish from conditions that wealthier citizens possess the ability to treat or cure. Growing up, you never saw poverty, or homelessness or even disease. Even the poorest people of Asgard had homes and food and all the basic comforts that life had to offer. No orphan was left without a guardian and no elder was abandoned. In this realm, there are no such guarantees. You could not fathom raising a child here. Sometimes you are amazed that humans can justify procreating at all.

" _Know..._ what...m'saying," Erik argues, gruffly.

You regard him wearily, avoiding his gaze. Erik may seem lucid now. But you know such things are fleeting. As soon as you walk out the door, this conversation will be forgotten.

"Of course, you do," you agree. There is nothing to be gained by arguing with him. "How crude of me to suggest otherwise."

"Hug," Erik orders sharply, interrupting your thoughts.

You glance up, startled by the unusual request. He is holding his arms are open wide, and trembling from his effort to do so.

Erik is an affectionate man by nature, certainly a good deal more than most of the humans you have encountered. He enjoys being in close physical proximity to others. You can recall more than a handful of conversations during which Erik reached out and touched you in some manner. Usually it was subtle, like a quick shoulder squeeze or a pat on the arm. Once, he actually had the nerve to tousle your hair. And although you found that particular gesture irritating and possibly even borderline demeaning, you knew that no harm was intended. Since Erik's mental capacity began to decline, such traits became increasingly pronounced. And thus, you graciously tolerated his gregarious nature and tenuous appreciation for the concept of personal space.

In the last six years, however, Erik has never asked for a hug.

It is hardly an unreasonable request. And try as you might, you cannot think of a plausible reason to refuse him. So, after some momentary deliberation, you lean over and passively allow Erik to envelop you in an embrace. You drape your arms loosely around him. It is chilling how thin he feels, how fragile, like something that might break if it is not properly handled.

When you were a very small child, you believed Odin to be the most powerful man in all the nine realms. His hugs were warm and strong. As you and Thor grew older, Odin apparently decided that such gestures were no longer appropriate. His affection was gradually replaced by stern discipline, harsh criticisms, uncomfortable silences and the occasional angry outburst. You are suddenly reminded of the day you saw your father for the last time. He was standing atop a hillside in Norway, dressed in Midgardian rags. How plainly he professed his love for you, as though all that had transpired prior had somehow been a dream. You wonder...had you hugged Odin that day, whether he would have felt warm and strong, or thin and fragile the way Erik does now. Perhaps it is for the best that it remains a mystery, as such knowledge would surely threaten to burn through your very soul.

You struggle against it, the unfamiliar urge to forgive. It feels wrong to simply surrender your grievances. Your bitterness has become so much a part of you that removing it would be akin to severing a limb. For if you were to lose it, what would be left? Who would you be then? Surely, Odin does not deserve such leniency. After all...when you stood before him, shackled for your crimes, he spared you no grace, awarded you no benevolence. No longer were you the inquisitive, young boy who had once perched atop his shoulders, tiny hands clasped beneath his bearded chin. At that moment you were nothing more than an unfortunate obligation, another loose end to tie up.

You have artfully avoided confronting your confusion, where Odin is concerned. Because his final words to you may have been words of love. But what of all his other words? What of his words of scorn and disapproval? What of the words he spoke before sentencing you to spend the remainder of your life in a cell? When Thanos sent you to Earth, you left with Thor in chains. _Your birthright is to die_ , Odin said...a statement rendered all the more cryptic when you consider the fact that you are the sole surviving Asgardian.

 _"You never talk about your parents,"_ Erik once pointed out.

 _"There's not much to tell,"_ you claimed, flatly.

And it was evident, by the look on his face, that he knew you were lying. But he did not say so.

 _"My mother was a homemaker,"_ he shared instead. _"My father was a very busy man. He worked all the time. I fear I did not know him very well."_

 _"What sort of work did he do?"_ you inquired.

While you were not terribly curious about such details, you knew that conversation required a certain degree of give and take. And you were eager to shift the focus away from yourself.

 _"He owned a clock repair shop."_

 _"I would not have assumed that to be such a demanding profession."_

There was a faraway look in his eyes, as he revisited the memory.

 _"Well, I don't know about other places. But in Uppsala it certainly was. Although I suspect that some portion of his time was consumed by the affair he was carrying on with his partner's wife."_

 _"That is rather scandalous,"_ you noted.

For all of Odin's faults, you know that he had been ridiculously devoted to Frigga. You could not imagine him having betrayed her in that way.

 _"It never came out, of course. My mother would never have allowed it. She kept his secret in order to maintain our family's good image. My father was well respected in our community...all his life. By everyone but me, I suppose."_

 _"You did not respect your father,"_ you repeated. You were intrigued, because you fully understood the implications of keeping family secrets for the sake of public image.

 _"I cared for him,"_ he supplied. _"I mean, he was my father. But there were many things he did that I could not agree with."_

You licked your lips. It seemed intentional, the way he had steered the conversation. It was not in your nature to share too much, to disclose anything too personal. You had learned from experience that even the most receptive party might feel compelled to use it against you later on.

Still, you found it difficult to conceive of Erik doing so. You had lived together for several years and he had never once chastised you. Not even when you had clearly deserved it. And you had shared other things with him, and not been rebuked. You thought, perhaps, you could trust him with something small.

 _"When I was a boy,"_ you began, cautiously, _"I had this spectacular fight with my brother. I was quite young. We were wrestling, as boys tend to do. He was much bigger than I, and taller. But somehow, I'd managed to pin him. It was such a rare thing that I delighted in it. And when I dared to assert my triumph, he said it did not matter because our father would always prefer him."_

 _"I'm sure he didn't mean it,"_ Erik dismissed.

 _"Oh, but he did,"_ you insisted. _"He said things like that all the time. That was the first time, though. I remember it very clearly."_

 _"I see,"_ he replied. And you knew what that meant. Even if he suspected that your perception of the events in question was not entirely accurate, he would never say so. Somehow, you still felt compelled to convince him.

 _"He was right,"_ you added. _"_ _When he emulated our father, he was lavished with praise. When I attempted to do so, all I earned was scorn."_

 _"Perhaps your father did not want you to be like him,"_ Erik countered.

 _"No,"_ you said. _"He favored Thor…always."_

 _"Well,"_ he surmised, vaguely, _"we cannot know for certain why people do the things they do."_

You sighed. You had come to consider your perception of Odin as being accurate, and you had no desire whatsoever to defend it. Had you made a mistake by disclosing something so personal?

He appeared to sense your frustration. And so he encouraged you to finish your story.

 _"How did you respond to your brother's words?"_ he asked.

 _"_ _I hit him."_

He seemed surprised.

 _"Really?"_

 _"I had him at a momentary disadvantage, and I punched him in the mouth. Not just once, either. Several times. Enough to draw blood."_

That was the first time you recall having felt genuine rage. You had been confronted with the possibility that something might be very wrong with you, perhaps even something you could not do anything about. And in your momentary fit of anger, you had pummeled Thor with your fists.

 _"Did he hit you back?"_

 _"For once, no. He didn't get a chance. When I realized what I'd done, I panicked, and I jumped off of him and ran. I ran as long and as far as I could, and I just kept on running. I could actually hear him calling my name, but I just kept running. And before I knew it, I didn't know where I was. I couldn't see the palace. Nothing around me looked familiar. I knew I was lost. And I thought…if I ever got home again, I'd be in the worst trouble I'd ever known."_

 _"Well, you obviously got home again."_

 _"Indeed. I tried rather unsuccessfully to go back the way I came. After a while, I could not hear any familiar sounds and it was beginning to grow dark. I was too tired to keep going. All I could think about was what was going to happen to me, if and when I ever got back to the palace, and what a fool I had been for striking my brother and venturing so far from home. I felt truly sorry for myself."_

You remember how you had crouched down in the dirt, how there had seemed to be no spot that was not either wet or filthy. As a young child, you had been rather partial to cleanliness. It had been dark enough that you were unable to see what dangers were lurking around you. You had not yet learned to conjure light. And of course, you had not eaten in hours. Between that and your ever-growing anxiety, there had been a sharp pain in the pit of your stomach.

Apart from a few soft footfalls, you had not detected Odin approaching. But when you had seen your father's face, all your fears were laid to rest. He had not arrived, carried by magic. And he had not dispatched anyone else to fetch you. He had ventured into the woods himself to find you and bring you home.

 _"There was no interrogation, no chastisement,"_ you recalled. _"I thought for certain he would come for me, wielding a rod or a birch. But he did not."_

 _"What did he say to you?"_

 _"Nothing. He picked me up and carried me all the way back to the palace. The whole journey home, there was no one else around. It was just the two of us. It was...perfect."_

You closed your eyes briefly, picturing it in your mind, your arms wrapped tightly around Odin's neck. Never in your life had you experienced such contentment. You had wanted that walk to last forever.

 _"That is a lovely memory,"_ Erik said.

 _"It's not lovely,"_ you corrected.

 _"Oh, it's not?"_

 _"I was a wretched child."_

 _"Why makes you say that?"_

 _"Because I wanted him all for myself."_

Erik smiled.

 _"Every child longs for their parent's undivided attention, Loki. That hardly makes you wretched."_

 _"No, you see...somehow, at a very tender age, I became convinced that he couldn't possibly love us both. I thought he had to choose one of us over the other. And I let that belief drive me..."_

 _"And you really believe that a young boy would reach such a conclusion all on his own?"_

 _"I don't know what you mean."_

 _"It feels a part of you because you can't remember a time when it wasn't there. But it could not have come from inside you. It came from outside."_

 _"You cannot possibly know that."_

 _"My son was sick quite often,"_ he shared. _"Towards the end of his life, he spent all of his time in the hospital. Knowing that he was dying should have made some kind of difference. You'd think I'd have been holding onto him, that I wouldn't want to let him go. But I was so disconnected, so intent on distancing myself from that loss, that I stayed away. I can only imagine how that made him feel, what he must have thought of me. I can only guess._ _If I could go back in time, I'd suffer gladly. I'd savor each moment."_

You could not picture it, Erik being so cavalier, so insensitive to the feelings of others. Especially those of his own child.

He was nothing like Odin. He was all compassion and no ego, arms always wide open, eyes brimming over with forgiveness. You knew he would gladly suffer for anyone, if they asked him to. He would probably even suffer for you. And you couldn't for the life of you figure out why. Because you didn't deserve it. You didn't.

 _"Not everyone who loves us love us well,"_ he concluded. _"My father didn't love me very well. But that wasn't about me. That was about him. I didn't love my son very well either. But that wasn't his fault. That was all me."_

 _"I wanted only to earn his favor,"_ you confessed, shamefully.

It was pitiful...how weak you sounded, simpering over such things at your age, like a child with a broken toy. How you hated yourself for it. You half expected Erik to look upon you with revulsion, or to at least admonish you for your foolishness.

But he did not.

 _"Well,"_ he offered, _"you can always have mine."_

You are disgusted by your own longing...to return to that point of your life, when you were still so small that you were easily contained in Odin's strong embrace. In the shelter of that memory, all the things you once held against your father suddenly seem trivial and petty.

Erik buries his face in the collar of your shirt. He smells like a combination of the sandalwood lotion, and whatever sort of detergent the hospital uses for laundering his clothing. You feel the warmth of his breath on your neck, and you are acutely aware of how intimate a moment this is. You realize that you can scarcely remember the last time you were this close to another person.

Your stomach churns with a fierce assortment of unwelcome emotions. You cannot help wondering whether this is just some random event, or if Erik is making some sort of attempt to say _goodbye_.

Something stirs deep inside, where you store the most raw and jagged parts of yourself. You panic as you feel your protective layers falling away, leaving you with something dangerously close to _need_. How liberating it would be to cry, you think...to finally release it, to force the darkness out of you in the form of tears. What a comfort it would be not to fear that loss of control. But you can't seem to manage it. The pain is locked within you, imprisoned in your heart.

You desperately want to leave the room, to run far away from all of this. Held in place by some unseen force, you patiently wait for the other man to let go first.


	10. Chapter 10

_February 26, 2024_

Shortly after you came to live with Erik, he supplied you with a cellular phone, in which he had pre-programmed a brief list of contacts. Among those included in the contacts was Steve Rogers. Though in the six years that you have owned the device, you never once found cause to dial Steve's number.

Placing a call is a one-touch process. Which, unfortunately, makes it fairly easy to do on mere impulse. And you know yourself well enough by now. If you allow yourself too much time to mull it over, you will not go through with it at all.

You pace around the coffee table with your phone in your hand, trying to will yourself to use it. You press the button quickly. It only rings twice, before the person on the other end picks up.

"Hello?"

Steve sounds genuinely surprised, almost pleasantly so. When you struggle to speak, you tell yourself that it is something in the other man's tone of voice that is responsible for your trepidation, some element of judgment perhaps. Some...something. Deep down you know that is a lie. The truth is that you know not what you were planning to say in the first place.

The silence stretches on for about ten seconds. You hold your breath. You are disgusted by your own cowardice.

Steve clears his throat.

"Uh, Loki..." he finally says. "I know it's you."

You hastily push the button on the screen to disconnect the call. You toss the phone back onto the coffee table. While you ordinarily take care when lowering yourself onto a seat, you practically fling yourself onto the couch.

Steve calls back almost immediately. You don't answer, of course. You cannot even imagine what you would say. The phone vibrates against the surface of the table, the name ROGERS flashing across the screen in big, green letters. It dances across the hard wood for about fifteen seconds, and then finally lies still.

Shortly afterwards, the phone lights up, indicating that you have received a text message notification.

You sigh and lean over the table. You pluck the phone between two fingers, and swipe at it with your other hand.

 _I don't know if you meant to dial my number or not. I hope everything is okay. If you need me, call or text._

You stare at the message on the screen for nearly a minute, reading the words over and over again. You try to find a way to be insulted by Steve's offer. But you cannot think of one. And yet, you are still annoyed. Because it is so like Steve to give you the benefit of the doubt by suggesting that you might have dialed in error.

You set the phone back down again.

How you long for the distilled spirits of Asgard. Such concoctions were powerful enough to render you incoherent by the second or third glass. Not that you oft sought escape in mind altering substances. But here on Earth it takes great effort and careful balance to achieve a worthwhile state of intoxication. In order to facilitate genuine drunkenness you must consume an obscenely large volume of alcohol. Unfortunately, doing so usually makes you sick to your stomach. And thus, you rarely bother.

Upon returning home from the hospital, your first order of business was to raid Erik's meagerly stocked liquor cabinet. Within it you found one unopened bottle of something called _whiskey_ , and two half empty bottles of something called _rum_. You line the bottles up on the coffee table. You pick up the bottle of whiskey. You open it and swallow as much as you can stand. The taste is unbearable. Though you are not exactly drinking it for the flavor.

You try to focus, to figure out what it is that is suddenly making you feel so distraught and out of control. In your mind, all you can hear is Erik calling you _son_. You know that that it is merely a term of endearment, and not meant to be taken literally. At this point, it may even be purely the result of delusion. It should probably please you to be referred to in such a manner. But whenever you hear it, your immediate instinct is to fill your head with noise, anything at all to obscure your thoughts. You are confused and frustrated by your own response to something so benign.

You used to believe that you were a man, or at least on the cusp of adulthood. But now you feel incredibly young. You wonder if maybe you are not still a child. You know not what has changed and you desperately want some more experienced party to step in and tell you what you are supposed to be doing. It frightens you, on some level...that you actually miss that brief period of your life during which it was Erik who was telling you what to do, instead of the other way around.

And for the first time since the war, you genuinely miss Thor. Because as much as it pains you, and it _does_ pain you, you are certain that Thor would know what to do at a time like this. You're far too cautious a person, always concerning yourself with the finer details of things. You cannot take action until you've assessed all the potential outcomes. Sometimes you cannot take action at all. Thor acted on his whims, which was often to his determent. But unlike yourself, he did not waste a lot of time agonizing about what might be. He simply did what felt right in the moment. And you cannot do that. You have no idea what _feels right_. Perhaps you never did.

Over the next hour you manage to consume the entire bottle of whiskey, and even a little of the rum. The alcohol has only minimal effect on you. Unfortunately, you know that if you force any more down you run the risk of vomiting. And you loathe vomiting...that complete loss of control over your body. It is unbearable. And thus, you avoid it at all costs.

When the idea comes to you, you initially dismiss it. Because it is completely ludicrous. But the idea lingers, of course, as ideas tend to do. And though you are definitely not drunk, you are just intoxicated enough that your judgement has been compromised. It is for that reason that you eventually rise and make your way to the kitchen. You scan the full length of the counter. The basket where Erik kept his various medications is precisely as he left it. As well it should be. You never had any reason to touch it. That is, until now.

There are so many bottles...one for urinary incontinence, one for something called _acid reflux_ , one for something called h _ypertension_ , another for _cholesterol_. Some are merely labeled _vitamins_. You lift each bottle and read the information printed on its exterior, until you finally find the words you are looking for: _may cause drowsiness_. You distinctly remember the phrasing, as it was for that reason Erik discontinued using the medication in the first place. After only a few dosages he complained that it made him feel _foggy and disconnected_. Which you suppose might be quite unwelcome, unless that was precisely how you were hoping to feel.

The instructions on the bottle indicate the use of one tablet, _as needed_ , and no more than four daily. But you reason that those directions are intended for a human body. Given your superior metabolism, you assume that you might require more of the medication to achieve the desired result. You open the bottle and dump the tablets onto the counter. There are plenty of them, as Erik consumed only a few. You try to decide upon an appropriate dosage. You eventually snatch up nine of the tablets and put the rest back in the bottle. You recall that Erik always took his medication with some kind of beverage. You open a cupboard and retrieve a glass and fill it at the sink. You then pop the nine tablets into your mouth. Even though you chase them with the water, you can still detect their bitter flavor. You slide the bottle into the front pocket of your pants, in case you later decide that you desire more and don't wish to venture all the way back into the kitchen to retrieve them.

You return to the living room and sit back down on the couch. You think that perhaps you will have to wait quite a while before you begin to feel any different. But within the span of twenty minutes you begin to feel exactly as Erik described...foggy and disconnected.

And though it is initially alarming, you ultimately revel in your altered state. You are in the process of debating whether or not to go to sleep or stay awake, when you hear a familiar sound...like a faint scraping of metal on metal.

Rather unexpectedly, the front door swings open. You see the silhouette of a woman standing in the entryway. It strikes you as odd that you did not detect her approaching. Even now that you are staring right at her, you cannot _sense_ her presence. You know not her identity, nor her intentions. You should probably be at least mildly concerned. And yet, in your current state, you cannot bring yourself to care.

You do nor bother to get up. You simply stare in the direction of the door, waiting for the woman to make her way into the living room.

When you see her face, you cannot decide whether to be relieved or irritated.

"I know for a fact that I locked that door," you announce.

Were you drunk, your words might be slurred. Instead they sound strange and far away, almost as though you are speaking through a long metal tube.

Jane eyes you, warily.

"Erik always keeps extra keys under the mat."

She holds up the key and dangles it back and forth for you to see.

You nod. You feel foolish, because that seems like something you should have known, and yet Erik never once mentioned it. You wonder how many other keys are hidden outside. You make a mental note to locate and retrieve them all, at your earliest convenience.

"Why is it freezing in here?" she demands.

You laugh at her assessment.

"It is _not_ freezing."

She walks briskly across the room and peers at the thermostat.

"You have this set at fifty-eight degrees."

"Well, you are a supposedly a scientist. So...you should know that is not _freezing_."

"Are you drunk?" she asks, gesturing to the bottles on the table.

"Oh, not hardly," you scoff.

"Are you alright?"

You are genuinely surprised by the question. But you would prefer she not know it. And so, you do not reply.

"Look," she says, quietly, "I'm worried about you."

You quickly find your voice.

"I do not need you to feel sorry for me."

Her eyes narrow.

"I _don't_ feel sorry for you."

"Right."

"That doesn't mean I don't care."

"I am not a child or an animal. I do not require looking after."

"Of course you don't."

"I think you should go," you declare. "Please leave the key on the table on your way out."

She folds her arms, defiantly.

"I said I would like you to leave," you repeat, a little more loudly.

Your statement is not nearly as threatening as you hoped. You suddenly realize that you have been more strongly affected by Erik's medication than you originally thought. Regardless of the reason, whatever ability you once had to intimidate her appears to have diminished. It is only just then that it occurs to you...the reason Jane is here. She has been working at the university in Syracuse for the past few years. You know not where she is living. But it must be relatively nearby. After your disconnected phone call, Steve Rogers probably contacted her and sent her to check up on you. The thought of them discussing you in any manner would probably make you irate, if you were capable of feeling irate at the moment. Fortunately, you are not.

Still, you have no desire to placate her. You stand up and make your way towards the stairs. If Jane is unwilling to to leave, you will simply retreat to your room. After all, you are not obligated to entertain her, whether she has a key or not. Except that when you rise, everything around you shifts. Though you grab the edge of the couch to steady yourself, the couch itself actually feels as though it is moving, and you end up adjusting your arm several times in order to remain upright.

"Just how drunk _are_ you?"

You giggle at her inquiry. What you are currently experiencing is nothing like being drunk at all. It is more like being enveloped in a warm cloud of numbness, in which absolutely nothing matters. You regret not taking Erik's discarded medication sooner. If only you had known what magic it possessed. You wonder how difficult it would be to acquire more. You could certainly get used to this.

You push yourself away from the couch and head once more towards the stairs. Though the entire distance is less than fifteen meters, you pause several times to get your bearings. Jane glares at you in disbelief, as you continue to battle against your ever increasing dizziness and disorientation. You imagine that you must appear utterly stupid, if the look on her face is any indication.

She rushes towards you. Your feet shuffle madly, as you back away from her. Somehow, you manage to forget that there is a wall behind you. You collide with it and then slide down it, rather unceremoniously. You land in a sitting position at the foot of the stairs. All the while, the bottle of pills in your pocket is rattling violently.

She kneels in front of you. When she touches your forehead, you swat at her hand.

"Hey," you protest, weakly.

"Stop it," she orders. She presses the back of her fingers against your brow. "Are you sick?"

"I am not _sick_. Don't be absurd."

"Do you feel hot?"

You frown at ridiculousness the question.

"Do I _what?_ "

"You're sweating," she notes, critically. "What did you take?"

You do not respond. Because she obviously heard the rattling of the pills. Despite your silence, she easily deduces that you have something in your possession. You see no reason to deny it. But you are not going to simply relinquish it either. You passively allow her to pat down your clothing. It does not take her long to locate the bottle, which she pulls effortlessly from your pocket. She carefully examines the writing on the label.

"Klonopin," she reads, "take point five milligrams as needed for anxiety…"

She scans the side of the bottle, all the way to the bottom. Her voice takes on a disapproving tone.

"Loki, this prescription belongs to Erik."

You feign ignorance. You figure that should buy you some more time. You know not what it is that you are delaying...you know only that you wish to delay it.

"Oh dear. Is that bad?" you ask. Though you care not about the answer. You are still amazed that the pills are having any sort of effect on you at all, and you really wish she would leave so that you could actually enjoy it.

"I don't know," she replies. "I guess it _could_ be. How many did you take?"

"I do not recall," you lie, smoothly.

She regards you with a stern expression. She opens the bottle and pours the remaining pills out on the carpet. She counts them and checks the label again.

"This prescription was for thirty-six pills and there are twenty-four of them left. You took 12 of these?"

"I do believe Erik took a few," you supply, casually.

You begin drumming your fingers on the molding that runs along the wall. She must find it distracting, because she lays her hand on top of yours until you stop.

"How many is _a few_?"

"Uh...two or three?"

She holds the bottle right in front of your face. You do not bother trying to focus on it, as all you can make out is a white blob.

"So, you took at least _nine_ of these? Did you take all of them today?"

"Did I?" you echo.

"It's barely two o'clock."

"Uh oh," you respond, with mock concern.

"This is _not_ funny."

"It is a _little_ funny," you counter.

"It says right on the label _do not mix with alcohol_. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Evidently, I wasn't," you quip.

She glares at you and slugs your left shoulder with her fist. You barely feel it. She does not know that, however. And so, you clutch yourself, dramatically.

"Why are you always hitting me, you insufferable harpy?"

She ignores both your question and the accompanying insult.

"I'm going to stay."

"No, you are not going to _stay_. I will not have you fretting over me like...like...like some sort of nursemaid."

"So…I shouldn't be worried that you're going to pass out and stop breathing or choke to death on your own vomit?"

"I am far more durable than you mere mortals. I would never succumb to such an end. And besides, I feel fan... _tastic_."

"Oh, I'm sure you do. You're as high as a kite."

"High," you repeat, "as a kite."

She rolls her eyes.

"Obviously."

"Well, I appreciate your concern about...my...my _highness_. Or is it height?"

You begin to laugh heartily at the notion, which now seems more hilarious with each passing second. You double over, as you detect a large quantity of air leaving your lungs. _Highness_. The word is suddenly unbearably humorous. Your eyes begin to water. You smack your own leg, as you struggle to inhale.

"My _highness_ ," you repeat, with a gasp. You can barely contain yourself. "See, it's funny because...because...because..."

Jane's lips are pinched together tightly. Though she is trying very hard not to smile, she does not succeed. You are reminded of how your mother would endeavor to remain composed when you relied upon your wit to circumvent her discipline. Such techniques never worked on Odin, of course. As he had no sense of humor to speak of.

"Let's just...get you moved back to the couch, shall we?"

She stands back up and extends her hands, indicating that you should take them. You do so, theatrically.

"My lady," you declare, gallantly. You bow your head at her. "Tis a blessing to gaze upon thy countenance."

"I thought I was a _harpy_ ," she returns, flatly.

Slowly, you stand and allow her to escort you back into the living room. When you plop down on the couch, it takes you nearly a minute to get situated. You squirm and shift, battling against the cushions with your too-long limbs. You do not recall sitting ever being quite this difficult.

"You are excused," you inform her, once you are comfortable. You wave your hand at her, as you would at a servant.

She snorts with amusement. She doesn't leave, however. Instead she sits down beside you on the couch.

"Are you going to hit me again?" you ask.

You intend it as a joke. But it comes out sounding like a sincere inquiry. Your mirth fades shortly after, giving way to something else, something markedly unpleasant.

You remind yourself that you are speaking out loud and there is another person present. Yet, you can't seem to control your mouth. Or any other part of you, for that matter. You now understand why Erik was so averse to using the medication. You feel completely idiotic.

Your stomach tightens, like something is tugging at you somewhere deep inside. You actually consider jumping off of the couch, shoving her out the door and running to your room. Except that you currently do not possess the dexterity to do so. You wish she had simply left, instead of whatever it is she is doing now. No one should be seeing you like this.

"Something's wrong," you say, as the wave of nausea hits you.

"Yeah," she laughs. "I noticed."

Your voice feels shaky. You swallow several times, in a vain attempt to prevent the acid from creeping up your throat.

"No, I mean I..." you pause. "I have to..."

Your hand curls into a tight fist, and you press it against your mouth. You inhale deeply through your nostrils to cope with the sensation. Though it does not really seem to help at all.

"Do you want me to get your something?"

You shake your head, frantically. You have no idea what that something might be.

Despite your negative response, she flees the room and returns with the waste bin from the kitchen. As soon as it is within reach, you snatch it up with both hands and begin to vomit into it. Even after the contents of your stomach are empty, you continue to heave fruitlessly for several minutes. It goes on far longer than it should, and you are horrified by the sounds of your own retching. You really wish she were not here to witness it.

When it is clear that you are finally finished, she retrieves the waste bin from you and takes it away. She brings you a wet towel, and urges you to wipe your face.

"I think I'm going to stay," she says again.

You know not why she would want to do that. But you do not pry. While you continue to be suspicious of her intentions, you realize that it is somewhat agreeable to have another person in the house again.

She regards you, sympathetically.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

You are not alright. You feel dizzy and weak and empty.

"I am a somewhat spent," you admit. "I was thinking that I might lie down for a bit."

She bobs her head in agreement.

"It's probably safe to do so, now that your stomach is empty. But I still think I should keep an eye on you...just in case."

You briefly consider making the trek upstairs to your bedroom. Though you decide it is probably more trouble than it is worth, especially now that you managed to get comfortable. She takes the soiled towel from you. You draw your legs towards your body and curl up against the arm of the sofa. You close your eyes and try to relax. You hear Jane leave the room and then return once more. A moment later, you feel her sliding a pillow underneath your head.

"I'm going to get my laptop from my car," she whispers, "and work in the kitchen."

You open your eyes, just long enough to acknowledge her with a nod. When you close them again, you feel her draping a thin blanket over you. She leaves the room, and you drift off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

_February 26, 2024_

You wake with a start, though it is unclear exactly what it was that tore you from your slumber. You do not remember dreaming. While you are conscious almost immediately, it takes you a few minutes to gain full awareness of your physical state. Your limbs are curled awkwardly against your body, and they ache desperately to be stretched. There is a dull throbbing in the anterior of your skull...irritating, yet just mild enough to be tolerable.

As you unfold your arms and legs, you release an involuntary groan. Evidently you dozed off at some point. That much is certain. Though you recall not when or why. Furthermore, you know not what possessed you to retire in such a manner, or why you did so on the sofa, as opposed to upstairs in your bed.

You slowly pivot your body and bring your feet to rest on the floor. The house is nearly dark. Mostly because the majority of the shades are drawn. Though some soft, purple light is still seeping in from outside. You cannot see the clock from where you are sitting. But you deduce that it is early evening, or at least very late afternoon.

You hear a noise, which you identify as the trickling of water...presumably from a faucet. It continues for about fifteen seconds, then stops with an abrupt _squeak_. Immediately afterwards, you hear the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing. Then there is a creaking of floorboards, indicating that someone or some _thing_ is moving about the kitchen. Your eyes widen with alarm when you realize that you are not alone. There is another person in the house.

You probe gently, attempting to identify the interloping party. You glean nothing at first. When you strengthen your efforts, you are rewarded with a sharp pain, shooting through your temple. It is a startling sensation and you grab your head with both of your hands. You rub the sides of your head with your thumbs. While it eases your discomfort somewhat, it does not extinguish it altogether.

You prioritize. It is pointless to waste time trying to identify the intruder. It is safer to simply assume that they are dangerous. And thus, your energy is better spent conjuring a weapon for your defense.

After a brief struggle, you manage to produce a small dagger. It is by no means impressive. But you know from experience that size matters not. It is more than sufficient for your purposes. You grip the blade tightly in your fist. You crouch down once more, and lean against the arm of the couch. You peer through the murky shadows and wait for your intruder to reveal themselves.

When you detect a figure emerging, you lift your dagger in anticipation.

Except that it is not an intruder that you see standing before you at all. It is only Jane Foster. She approaches you without hesitation, and holds your cellular phone directly in front of your face.

"I wasn't snooping," she claims. "But it kept vibrating."

The screen is unexpectedly bright in contrast to the darkness in the room. It burns your eyeballs, and you turn your head to avoid it. Your skull throbs from the sudden movement.

Fortunately, she does not notice the dagger that is in your hand. You dispose of it, hastily.

"The hospital called three times in the last fifteen minutes," she adds. "They haven't left any messages. But you should probably call them back."

It's obvious from her body language that she has reason to believe you were already aware of her presence. You wonder how you could possibly have forgotten that she was in the house. You retrace your steps in your mind. You know that you rose early in the morning, and you visited Erik at the hospital. Beyond that, you are drawing a blank.

It is not until Jane asks whether you are _feeling better_ , that your recollections are further refreshed. But your memories return to you in harsh fragments. Though you recall not why, you know that you left the hospital feeling distraught. Upon returning home, you phoned Steve and then hung up without speaking. He called you back immediately and you did not answer. Attempts to quell your nerves with whiskey were unsuccessful. Which led to your misguided consumption of Erik's discarded medication. Jane gained entry to the house at some point, apparently with a key that had been hidden under the doormat. Not long after, you vomited profusely. In front of Jane, no less. You cringe as you recall it.

"What time is it?" you inquire.

You feel as though you have been asleep for days, even though you suspect it has only been a matter of hours.

"A little past five-thirty."

She makes her way around the sofa and flicks the switch on the wall. The room is instantly flooded with light. You blink rapidly, as your eyes adjust.

She offers you your phone once more. When you do not take it from her, she drops it in your lap.

You pick up the phone and activate the screen. The first thing you notice is that the numbers are blurry. You rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand. The improvement to your vision is minimal. Squinting hard, you scroll through the list of missed calls. Just as Jane reported, the hospital called three times and they left no messages.

You thrust the phone back at her.

"Call them back and see what they want," you order, briskly.

She looks confused.

"Why can't you do it?"

You are unprepared for her inquiry. You know not the source of your apprehension. You know only that you would prefer not to place the call yourself. Or any other calls, for that matter. You're not terribly fond of such forms of communication, or communicating in general. And you foolishly assumed that she would simply oblige without requiring further explanation.

"It's not that I mind," she explains. "I just don't think they're going to disclose anything to _me_...especially over the phone."

You glare back at her, dumbly. In your current state, it takes you a few moments to appreciate the deeper significance of her words. You know that this realm has laws in place that govern the _privacy_ of its citizens. It seems that while Erik afforded you legal access to the details of his medical treatment, he apparently neglected to do the same for Jane. You know that she and Erik share a lengthy history, far lengthier than the one you and Erik share. And yet, for some reason, he chose you to make decisions on his behalf. You experience a brief pang of satisfaction.

It is short lived, however. You have no desire to telephone the hospital, regardless of the reason. Your head continues to ache, intermittently. Recalling your unfortunate spell from earlier, you decide to appeal to her sympathy.

"I'm still feeling a bit ill." You scrunch your lips and wrinkle your nose, as though you have tasted something foul. "I may be sick yet again."

She retrieves the phone from you, suspiciously.

"Alright."

Jane places the call. It takes her only a minute to reach the appropriate party. But her initial hypothesis is proven correct. The hospital staff are willing to provide her only with vague information.

"They want to talk to you," she says.

She does not wait for you to acquiesce. She shoves the phone into your hand. And you accept it, reluctantly.

You clear your throat and lift the device to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Odinson?" a woman's voice asks.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Chen wanted us to reach out to you personally, just to let you know that your father is having a particularly difficult evening."

" _Difficult_ how?"

"He's being a little more combative than usual."

"Combative?"

"Aggressive, vulgar language...that sort of thing."

You doubt very much that she has motivation to lie. You know that Erik's behavior has become increasingly erratic of late. You have seen it with your own eyes. And yet, you feel strangely compelled to defend him.

"That isn't like him at all."

"I am just relaying information," she replies, apologetically. "Dr. Chen also wanted me to let you know that it may become necessary to administer additional sedation."

"You mean to tranquilize him," you return, "like an animal."

"Um..." she appears unsure of how to respond to your evaluation of the situation. "I can page Dr. Chen for you, if you have questions about your father's treatment..."

"I'm coming," you say, with no forethought whatsoever. "Don't do anything else until I get there."

"That really isn't necessary," she maintains. "Why don't I page Dr. Chen so you can discuss the details of..."

You pull the phone away from your ear and study the screen. It is still blurry...though slightly less so than before. While you can still hear the nurse speaking, you cannot make out her words. Eventually she goes silent and the call is disconnected. You lean forward and set your phone on the coffee table.

Jane regards you, curiously.

"What's going on?"

"I need to go back to the hospital," you respond, quietly.

"Okay. Is everything alright?"

"I don't know yet."

Your head is still hurting, and your vision still obscured. You really don't feel well at all. You are certain that you could operate Erik's automobile. But the truth is, you would rather not. Not only that, but you don't ordinarily travel about this late in the day. And you are torn between your unwillingness to stray from that habit, and your desire to reach Erik as soon as possible.

"Um," you begin. "Do you think you could..."

You cannot seem to get the words out. You despise soliciting others for help, especially with something as routine as this. You wave your hand around, and then point in the general direction of the front door.

She screws her mouth upwards, as she endeavors to make sense of your ridiculous gestures.

"Uh...drive?" she guesses. "You want me to drive? I can drive."

You nod, relieved that she is perceptive enough to decipher your intentions.

"Let me just get my coat," she says.

You rise, slowly. You slide your phone into your pocket. Your own coat is folded over the back of a chair in the kitchen. You retrieve it and follow Jane outside to her vehicle.

The first thing that you notice about Jane's car is that it is very different than Erik's. It sits much higher off the ground, for one thing. And the interior is far more spacious. It is more similar in structure to the one Steve used to bring you to Solvay, six years ago. You once heard him describe it as a _sports utility vehicle_. Although you know not the significance of that distinction. You recall Erik claiming that such vehicles got _shitty gas mileage,_ though he did not express that particular opinion in Steve's presence. It is peculiar that someone would willingly purchase a vehicle that requires more currency to operate.

Jane's _SUV_ is shiny and clean, equipped with the latest technology. As far as you can surmise, it performs basically the same function as less costly automobiles. Erik's car is fifteen years old. The paint is peeling off in several places, and the interior upholstery faded and torn. You, yourself, have made numerous repairs to it. It has little aesthetic value. But it continues to function adequately.

The hospital is not far away. Which is why, whenever you drive there, you typically take regular thoroughfares. But Jane uses the parkway. Though you've given it minimal consideration, you now realize that you've deliberately avoided using the parkway, your deeper reasoning for which continues to elude you. You have effortlessly operated craft that could move at the speed of light. You have traveled via the Bifrost, across great spans of space and time in a matter of seconds. You mastered the use of countless weapons and various styles of combat. And yet, you seem to have gone backwards.

It is like you are a child again, making yourself small and quiet, hoping to attract as little attention to yourself as possible. You once believed that if you could blend in or remain unseen, you would be safe...safe from your brother's booming voice and his taunting friends, safe from your father's disappointment, safe from painful thoughts. Once again, you find yourself seeking safety. But from what, you honestly do not know.

By the time you arrive at the hospital, the sky is completely dark. Jane has no difficulty locating a place to deposit her car, as there are very few vehicles in the parking structure. A security guard meets the two of you in the lobby. Once you've shown him your identification, he uses a private lift to take you to the third floor and leads you directly to the nurse's station. A rather serious woman greets you. You recognize her voice immediately. She is the one who you spoke to on the phone. She introduces herself as the _nursing manager_. She does not mention your prior interaction, however. She simply escorts you to Erik's room.

Dr. Chen is already there, standing in the doorway. There is nothing about his posture or demeanor to indicate that anything out of the ordinary is taking place. Yet when you brush past him, you are horrified to discover that Erik is on the floor. And as appalling as that is, of even greater concern is the fact that he is clad only in a pair of socks and some sort of paper undergarment. There is a nurse standing over him, and random items strewn all about. You watch Erik snatch up a book that is lying within reach.

"Fit... _ta!_ " he yells, as he clumsily launches it at the nurse's head.

She manages to catch the book before it can hit her in the face, and sets it aside.

"Just what is going on here?" you demand.

The nurse is noticeably relieved to see you, although there is a hint of exasperation in her eyes.

As you come closer, she gives you wide berth. She does not leave the room completely, however. She merely retreats to the other side of the bed. You turn your head and note that Jane has not followed you all the way into the room. She is still standing in the doorway, beside Dr. Chen.

You crouch down on the floor next to Erik and greet him cautiously.

"Hey there."

Erik does not acknowledge your presence right away. His expression remains somewhat blank. His hand darts out, scrambling around the surface of the tile. The nurse may be out of his line of vision. But he is obviously searching for something else to throw. And so, you quickly gather up all the items around to you and slide them well out of his reach.

You know that Erik understands Norwegian as well as he does English or Swedish. Or at least, he used to. It is hard to know for sure what he remembers anymore. But although your grasp of Norwegian is limited, you would prefer using it over allowing anyone else who is present to play audience to your exchange. It is bad enough that they are witnessing Erik in such a state to begin with.

"Hva skjer her?" you ask, hoping to attract his attention.

He blinks a few times. His eyes remain unfocused. But he replies, softly.

"Here?"

"Ja, here. Hvorfor er du på gulvet, eh?"

"Gol... _vet_ ," he says in Swedish.

He smacks the tile surface, demonstratively.

He looks around and notes his current position. It is evident that he has no idea how he ended up here.

"Hey...la oss kle på deg, ja?" you suggest, with an encouraging tone.

You hope he will allow you to lift him from the floor and onto the bed. He does not reply to your statement, however. You clap your hands a few times, and he is torn from his thoughts.

"Let's get up off the floor," you repeat, this time in English.

"Fallit," he laments, sadly. He gives the tile another smack.

"Did you fall?" You shoot a quick glance at the nurse. "How dreadful."

"Ja," he confirms, quietly.

He stares into space for a moment. You wait for him to process your request. Eventually, he reaches for you and allows you to lift him and deposit him on the edge of the bed. Once he is seated you scan the room for his clothing.

"Where is your shirt, eh? Hvor er...uh skyrta din?"

"Skjorta," he corrects, absently.

A slow smile spreads across his face and he giggles to himself. He is amused by your use of the archaic Norse word for _shirt_.

"Skjorta," you amend, rolling your eyes. "Yes, where is it?"

"Där," he provides, without pointing in any particular direction.

"Oh ja? Where is där?"

"His clothing is over here," the nurse offers. "I was dressing him when he…"

"That's fine," you interrupt. You have no desire to hear her explanations. You cannot fathom what could have precipitated the scene that you walked in upon.

Assisting Erik into his shirt is easy enough. But getting him into his pants is another matter entirely. And you know not how to go about it. You hate that you are being monitored so intently. You eventually decide to guide Erik's feet into the legs of the pants and then bring him to stand, just long enough to pull them up to his waist. Erik teeters, his frail body threatening to fall, as you hurriedly drag the pajama bottoms into place. You carefully lower him back onto the bed. Despite the fact that you were doing most of the work, he is still huffing and puffing from the minimal exertion. You turn Erik's body, bringing him to rest against the head of his bed, and slide his legs over onto the mattress.

Yet another nurse enters Erik's room, carrying a tray. On the tray are a paper cup and a small spoon. She hands the tray to Dr. Chen and walks out.

When Dr. Chen approaches you with the tray, you see that the cup is filled with something yellow that resembles custard.

"He can no long swallow pills," he explains. "So, we crush his medication up and and mix it with pudding."

You eye the cup with disgust.

"I take it this is the aforementioned _sedation_?"

"I know you have reservations. But I assure you, it's mild. And it's purely for _his_ comfort."

You sigh. Though you are reluctant, you collect the cup and spoon. You strongly dislike the idea of subduing Erik with drugs. But if he truly is as distressed as he seems, perhaps it is for the best.

You sit on the edge of the bed and scoop up some of the pudding with the spoon. You lift the spoon to Erik's face. You wonder just how you are supposed to coax Erik into opening his mouth. But then, he does so all on his own. It is strange to be feeding a grown man this way. While you are pleased that he is being so compliant, you are also somewhat embarrassed for him.

You cover Erik with his blankets, and pull the bed's protective guardrails into place. The nurse brings a stack of pillows from a nearby chair and arranges them on either side of Erik's shoulders. Then she departs...to torment some other poor person, no doubt. Dr. Chen dims the lights over Erik's bed and beckons you and Jane to follow him out into the hallway. You peek back at Erik once more. He is staring at the ceiling. He looks relaxed enough.

Once you are all in the hallway, Dr. Chen closes the door to Erik's room.

"I want that woman dismissed from her station," you announce.

He frowns.

"What woman? The charge nurse? She was just doing her job."

"Do her duties include liberating patients of their clothing and working them into an emotional frenzy?"

"Mood instability is a normal part of this disease."

"You call that _mood instability_?"

"Aggression and hyper-vigilance are not uncommon at this stage…"

You know these things already. But somehow, that does not change how you feel. And in your frustration, you find yourself stammering.

"He...he was _naked_ and on the _floor_..."

"He didn't fall. He slid off the bed and onto the floor when the nurse was dressing him..."

"A likely story..."

"It only happened just minutes before you arrived. We were waiting for his meds to arrive..."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"I know that this must be tremendously difficult for you..."

"I have never seen him so agitated."

"This is not at all uncommon..."

"She must have done _something_ to provoke him."

"I can assure you that she did not."

"He has never behaved that way with me," you practically shout. "Not ever."

Despite the fact that your voice has raised steadily in volume, his remains calm and even.

"Even if that is true," he asserts, "and it very well may be, there's no guarantee that will always be the case..."

"I would like to take my father home," you blurt out, suddenly.

You gaze immediately at the floor, stunned by your own outburst. You have never openly declared Erik to be your father before. You have only ever conceded when others have done so. Not only is it a lie, it feels like something you have no right to say. It is as though you are taking something that does not belong to you. In your lifetime you've taken plenty of things that didn't belong to you. But you know that, somehow, this is very different. For a brief moment, you actually fear that Jane will do something to spoil your charade. When you glance up again, you do not look at her. Instead, you stare straight ahead at Dr. Chen.

"I do not think that would be advisable," he replies, coolly.

"But you said it was up to me, did you not? You said…as his..." you inhale and let it out, slowly. You are already treading on thin ice. But you've committed yourself to this deception. So, there's no point in backing out now. "You said that as his _next of kin_ , that I had the authority to make such decisions. _Durable power of attorney_ is what you called it."

He tilts his head, thoughtfully.

"That is true, technically."

"Technically?"

"You do have the power to make legal decisions on his behalf. However, as his physician, I am still professionally obligated to advocate for his best interests."

"I see," you counter. He is not questioning your competence. He is questioning your motives. Somehow, that is worse. "And you believe that I'm advocating for...what, exactly?"

"I believe that you are not a doctor."

"So, if I were to remove him from this facility..."

"I...I'm not going to physically stop you, if that's what you're asking."

"Then why are we even having this conversation?"

"I could still fight you," he replies. After a beat he adds, "In a court of law, of course."

You can feel your pulse quickening at the prospect of such an ordeal. The last thing you want is to do is go anywhere near a court of law. The law has never been your friend, in this realm or any other. And if you were subject to any sort of legal scrutiny, it would only be a matter of time before they uncovered your duplicity. All of this is for show, you realize. You never really had any control at all. You can sign mountains of paperwork. But ultimately these practitioners will do as they please.

You alter your strategy, forcing a polite smile for good measure.

"I have no desire to fight you," you say, diplomatically, "in a court of law or any other place..."

"I understand that. I really do."

"I simply wish to take him home. Why is that not possible?"

"It's very complicated."

Up until now, you've been rather patient. But a familiar rawness builds up within you, and your ears begin to ring. The hairs on your arms become erect. Your skin is actually tingling. What's more, the pain in your head has ceased altogether, replaced by a deep pulsing of energy.

You step forward into the other man's personal space, stare directly into his eyes, and bare your teeth.

"I will give you three seconds to _uncomplicate_ it," you growl.

Your chest is heaving, your hands balled into fists. The doctor's eyes widen at your sudden change in demeanor. He does not appear to be afraid, however, at least not in the traditional sense. He regards you with intense clinical fascination.

Jane grips your arm.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, harshly.

"I'm not _doing_ anything," you snap.

It is only then that you notice...everything around you is shaking. Not far away, at the nurse's station, various members of hospital staff are scrambling with panic. You can hear the rattling of furniture and other objects against various surfaces. You glance up and notice that the all lighting fixtures are swaying back and forth. Some are even flickering.

Dr. Chen follows your gaze to the ceiling.

"Interesting," he says.

The woman who escorted you to Erik's room earlier is now moving briskly in your direction.

"Joe," she barks, "what the hell is going on?"

The doctor makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"Obviously, we are having an earthquake."

The woman looks up at the ceiling. The trembling has ceased. But the lighting fixtures are still moving.

She seems skeptical of his assessment.

"Joe..."

"Check in with the other floors," he tells her. "Coordinate with the security guards. Find out if any computers are down and make sure the backup generators are all online."

The woman eyes you once more. After a few seconds she nods, turns around and heads back to the nurse's station. You hear her swearing under her breath as she walks away.

"Perhaps," Dr. Chen remarks, "we should discuss this further when you are not quite so...upset."

Your hands are still balled into tight fists. You open them, slowly. You smooth the palms of your hands along the surface of your jeans.

"I am not _upset_ ," you insist, as calmly as you can muster.

You peek down and notice that Jane is still gripping your arm.

"Um..." she interjects, "maybe it would help if we knew what your specific reservations were."

"Of course," Dr. Chen agrees. He sounds pleased to return to discourse that is purely academic in nature. "As you know, the brain controls everything...including speech and motor function, and basic processes like chewing and swallowing food."

"What's your point?" you respond, brusquely.

"Your father is beginning to show signs of dysphagia...difficulty swallowing. You might have noticed that we've recently made some changes to his diet."

You recall the pureed consistency of Erik's breakfast.

"I had noticed."

"Anything he consumes will have to be finely chopped or blended. Any liquids will have to be thickened to prevent choking. With dysphagia, there's an increased risk of aspiration. So, he will have to be positioned appropriately. He cannot lie flat. His head will need to be elevated at all times."

"Is that it?" you ask.

He raises an eyebrow.

"No," he adds. "That's _not_ it. His equilibrium is severely compromised. He can no longer support his own body weight. He will have to be secured into his bed to prevent falling. And despite the severity of those symptoms, there's no way to know for sure how long he will...persist. He may eventually require assistance with breathing."

"Well, that's all simple enough," you argue, flippantly. Even though you know that it probably isn't. Caring for Erik was a daunting task when he still had the ability to swallow and walk.

"Right...well...these are just a few of the things you would have to deal with, should you choose to discharge him."

"What if nurses came to his home and cared for him there?" Jane suggests.

You roll your eyes at the thought of it...a parade of strangers coming into Erik's house, ogling him, humoring him as though he were some sort of witless beast.

"That is a possibility," Dr. Chen agrees. "But unlike his stay here, in home services not covered by the universal plan. He does have insurance through his employer. But it would still only cover a small fraction of the overall cost. And there's no way of knowing how long he would require those services."

"Money," you say, flatly. "This is about money? Is that all that matters to you people?"

"It's not just about money. But unfortunately, that is a factor that cannot be ignored. Which is why I really wish you would reconsider."

"I have _already_ reconsidered," you declare.

Jane is now tugging on your bicep. You still don't acknowledge her. But Dr. Chen does.

"This is a very important decision," he points out. "Perhaps you should take some time to discuss it with your wife."

Your jaw drops open.

"My _what?_ " you huff, indignantly. "How _dare_ you..."

In one swift motion, Jane lets go of your arm and reaches out to clasp the doctor's hand.

"Thank you _so_ much for your your time. You've certainly given us a lot to think about."

Dr. Chen studies you both with a confused expression. He appears to gather that his perception of your relationship was inaccurate. But he makes no effort to correct himself.

"Well...I hope so."

"Do you think we might see Erik once more, before we leave?" Jane proposes.

"Who said we were leaving?" you mutter, under your breath.

"I really think it's best to let him rest for now."

"Just for a few minutes?" she pleads. "I mean, we're already here. And it's not _that_ late, is it?"

She bats her eyes a bit. If you weren't so thoroughly annoyed, you would probably be impressed.

"Well," he muses, hesitantly, "just make it quick, okay? No more than five minutes."

"Thank you so much," she replies, flashing her teeth.

He addresses you once more.

"And we can pick this discussion up after you've had more time to...consider your options."

You stare back at him, silently. You have no idea what just happened.

"Thank you," she offers, on your behalf. "We appreciate it."

Dr. Chen begins to walk away. You are about to chastise Jane for having the audacity to speak for you, when the other man stops and turns around.

"Um...I don't mean to pry..."

You know not what more he could possibly want from you.

"Pry about what?" you return, wearily.

He bobs up and down on the balls of his feet a bit, positively enthralled about something.

"What exactly are you feeling when that happens?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm just curious," he confesses. "Are your senses dulled or are they heightened?"

You realize that he is referring to the apparent _earthquake_ that took place just minutes ago.

"Are you aware that your pupils dilate, much like a feline?"

You do not share his enthusiasm, however. You are unnerved by his unseemly reaction to what should have been perceived as a tremendous threat to his well being. He appears to be aware that you are at least partially responsible for what occurred. He could easily have called upon some higher authority to have you forcibly removed from the building. And yet, he did not.

Jane steps between you, with her back turned towards Dr. Chen.

"Let's just check on Erik," she says.

You gaze back at her and raise your eyebrow, menacingly. You wait for her to blink, or at least take a step away from you. But she just smiles.

"Did you know that you are unbelievably irritating?" you ask.

She slides her arm all the way around your waist.

"Yes," she replies, as she drags you in the direction of Erik's room.


	12. Chapter 12

_February 26, 2024_

When you enter Erik's room again, you see that he is still awake. He is mumbling quietly to himself. Though his hands are resting on the blankets that are covering him, his fingers are moving ever so slightly.

You approach the bed and seat yourself on the edge of it. Jane makes her way around to the other side of the bed and does the same.

Erik turns to look at you. There are things you might say, if Jane were not present. But she is present. And so, you say nothing.

"lyck… _lig_ ," he says, beaming.

"You're...happy," you clarify.

Not that you aren't glad that he is happy. You just find it strange. Especially considering what happened earlier. It is bizarre...how easily his mood can change, how he can seem so distressed one moment and entirely content the next.

"And why is that?" you pry, gently.

He slowly glances at Jane, and then back at you.

"To…geth… _er_."

"Together," you repeat to yourself. You peek at Jane, and then return your gaze to Erik. And then it gradually dawns on you. It is possible that Erik is grossly misinterpreting the situation.

"We're not... _together_ ," you explain, gesturing at the space between you and Jane.

Erik either does not hear you or he does not care. He continues to grin at you both.

"I mean, we _came_ here together," you amend, "but we're not…"

You trail off, suddenly feeling very silly. You stare at one of Erik's blankets, fixing your eyes on the tightly woven threads that are beginning to come unraveled in some places. You focus on the way the dim, artificial light makes its otherwise warm green hue appear dingy and grey. Once more, the pain in your skull returns. Except now, it settles behind your eyeballs and radiates across the center of your face.

Erik and Jane exchange some words. But you tune them out completely. Everything around you becomes muted and blurry, and you retreat into your mind.

You begin to pick at the skin around your fingernails, an unfortunate habit from your childhood. You recall how your mother scolded you for it, how she was always after you with ointments and balms. You remember hiding your hands within the cuffs of your shirt, so that Odin would not see them. Such behavior was unbecoming for a prince.

Something touches your shoulder. You look across the bed, and see that Jane is no longer seated there. She is standing behind you.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

"Doesn't what hurt?" you return, wearily.

She nods at your hand.

You look down at your fingers and see that several of your nail beds are now raw and red. The index finger on your right hand is very close to bleeding. It does not _hurt_ , however. Not really.

"Are you ready to go?" she asks.

You glance over at Erik. His eyes are closed, and he is finally in the process of falling asleep. You know not how much time passed while you were lost in your own thoughts. Although you suspect it was only a matter of minutes.

"Of course," you reply.

When you exit the building, you discover that it is completely dark outside. The sky seems so black, so wide and open. And even after six years on Earth, there are still so many sounds that you do not recognize. You are plagued by an overwhelming desire to get home as soon as possible, to return to a place where things are more familiar and predictable. You walk briskly in the direction of Jane's car. So much so that she struggles to keep up.

"Are we in some kind of hurry?" she calls after you.

"It's not my fault that you move so slowly," you yell over your shoulder.

Once you enter the parking garage, you scan the vicinity and locate Jane's vehicle. You quicken your pace. You are practically running. You know you are being utterly ridiculous. Yet, you are unable to control yourself. When you reach her car, you lean against it and wait. You tap your foot against the ground, impatiently. As soon as she is within proximity, Jane uses her key fob to unlock the car. You open the door on the passenger side, slide inside, and shut it behind you. You are well aware that the structure of Jane's car would offer little protection from anything strong enough to do you genuine physical harm. And yet, the moment you are inside it, you immediately feel safer.

Less than a minute later, Jane opens the door to the driver's seat and climbs into it. She regards you, cautiously.

"Did I do something wrong?"

You shake your head. You realize that your right knee is bouncing up and down. You press your hand against it until it stops moving.

"Nope."

She puts the key into the ignition.

"Alright."

She starts the car. But she does not put her foot on the gas pedal just yet.

"What's _fitta_?" she asks.

"What?" you reply, even though you heard her just fine. She can just as easily speak while the car is in motion. You know not why she would delay your departure to inquire about something so trivial.

"Erik yelled it at the nurse," she prompts.

"How should I know?" you mumble.

"I don't think I've ever heard him say that before."

Your right knee begins to move again. It seems to have a mind of its own. You straighten our your legs and cross them at the ankle.

"So?"

"It's Swedish, right?"

You shrug.

"Probably."

"I know you two speak to each other in Swedish," she accuses.

" _He_ speaks Swedish," you correct. "I speak Norwegian...poorly."

"So...you're not going to tell me what it means?" she presses. "Why not?"

"Because," you reason, "it's not a nice word."

She appears amused by your evasiveness.

"Are you protecting his reputation?"

"What? No..."

"So, you're what...embarrassed?"

You sigh. You continue to pick at the cuticle on your right index finger. You scrape away at the bed of the nail. When you notice a bead of blood rushing to the surface, you wipe it against the surface of your jeans.

"Never mind," she says. "I'll just Google it."

She pulls her phone from her jacket pocket.

"It's a derogatory term," you supply, before she has a chance to activate the screen.

She pauses.

"For what?"

You tuck your hands inside the sleeves of your shirt and fold your arms across your chest.

"For...parts of the female anatomy."

"Oh."

She must be satisfied with your answer. Because she slides her phone back into her jacket. Finally, she backs her vehicle out of the parking space.

Before pulls out into the street, she turns on the radio. She pushes buttons, scrolling through the stations until she finds something she likes. You do not recognize any of the songs. They are all curiously repetitive, with an almost vigorous tempo. You cannot help noticing that her taste in music is very different from Erik's.

You close your eyes. But you discover that doing so while the car is moving actually makes you queasy. You have no desire to do any more vomiting, inside of Jane's vehicle or any other place. You recall those anti-nausea patches that Steve supplied you with during your journey from Washington D.C. to Solvay. You wonder how difficult it would be to acquire some now. You are simply not accustomed to this particular flavor of pain. It is nothing at all like the shock of an acute injury, or even the inevitable soreness the follows. It is a continuous throb...not quite strong enough to be intolerable, but just irritating enough to cause ongoing discomfort.

You assume that Jane will simply drop you off and depart for her own dwelling. But instead of parking in front of the house, as she did before, she stops her car in front of the back gate. There is a small compartment located in front of your seat. You recall Erik referring to it as a _glove box_...a peculiar designation, as it clearly is not used to house gloves. She opens the compartment. Inside it there is a remote, which she uses to open the gate. You recognize the device immediately, because there is one exactly like it in Erik's car. You know not when she acquired it, or whether she ever made use of it before now.

Jane drives through the back gate and uses the remote to close it behind her. She parks her car in the driveway. And when you exit the vehicle and walk towards the house, she follows.

When you retrieved your jacket from the kitchen earlier, you did so with haste. And so, you did not bother turning on the light. But as you enter the house, you flick the switch on the wall beside the door. That is when you notice that the sink that was previously overflowing with soiled dishes is now empty. The dishes have been washed and are now stacked atop a towel that has been laid along the counter. The kitchen table is also clear of debris and appears to have been wiped. You lift the lid on the rubbish bin and note that it has been emptied and furnished with a fresh plastic liner.

You move through the kitchen and into the living room. It seems that entire area has been tidied as well. Jane must have done all of this while you were sleeping, you realize. And yet, somehow you missed it before. Were you truly so distracted that you were completely indifferent to your own surroundings?

You should probably feel grateful that she would pick up after you in such a manner, especially considering how reluctant you've been to do so yourself. But you do not. You know not precisely what it is that you are feeling. You know only that it is not gratitude.

"You had no right," you utter, softly.

You decide that if she hears you, so be it. And if she doesn't...well, that's fine too.

But she _does_ hear you.

"No right to do what?" she asks.

You do not respond. You just stare at the coffee table, which is now bereft of clutter. The bottles from your earlier carousal have been removed. The blanket that Jane covered you with while you were napping is exactly where you left it. But the others are folded and have been laid over the arm of the sofa on the opposite side of the room. The books on each of the end tables have been gathered into a neat stack.

She comes up behind you.

"You probably don't want to hear this...but I started a load of laundry before we left."

You roll your eyes, and release a soft growl from the back of your throat. The machines that you use for washing and drying clothing are not even located inside the house. They are all the way outside, in the garage. And you are certain that you secured the garage with a padlock. She could not have opened it with a remote, nor any keys found hidden under doormats. You know not how she could have gained entry, or why she would go to the trouble to do so.

"The garage was locked."

"No," she says, "it wasn't."

"It _was_ ," you insist. "I know because I locked it myself."

You conjure the key from thin air and hold it out to her, demonstratively.

She does not appear particularly impressed. Not that you would expect her to be. She's aware enough of the breadth of your abilities not to be wowed by what is basically a parlour trick.

"I _did_ see a lock hanging from a hook," she confirms. "But the garage door was open."

"I _always_ keep it closed."

"It was open. I mean, you must have seen it. You walked right past it on your way into the house."

Your eyes widen. The moment you realize that she is correct, the key dematerializes from your hand. Prior to Erik's relocation to the hospital, you kept the garage locked at all times. Once you no longer had to constantly fear for his safety, there seemed little need. And it has been weeks since you spent any real time out there. Your most recent project lies abandoned, under a sheet.

"Still," you say again, this time more loudly, "you had no right."

She shrugs.

"I changed your sheets too."

You are flabbergasted.

"You...you went into my room?"

"Where do you think I found all the dirty clothes?"

During the years that you lived together, Erik rarely set foot in your room. He understood how greatly you valued your personal space. He never questioned your desire for solitude or your need to keep your door shut. It wasn't until he became afflicted that he begin to wander in, periodically, without knocking. But given his diminished capacity, you did not interpret such behavior as a violation of your privacy. You even stopped latching the door when he began to experience difficulty turning the knob.

Jane walks away from you and heads back into the kitchen. You hear the refrigerator door being opened. But when you do not hear it close again, you go to investigate.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" you demand.

"You have nothing to eat," she declares, disapprovingly. "Literally...nothing."

You approach her from behind and shove the refrigerator door closed. She is thrown off balance and staggers a bit to regain her footing.

"I'm sure you have food at your own home," you remind her. "Perhaps you should go there, so you can eat it."

"I was thinking of _you_ , actually."

"Oh, I'm sure you were."

"When's the last time you ate?"

"If you must know," you say, "I ate this morning."

Which is true. You did eat something this morning. Although you suspect that _Cool Ranch Doritos_ scarcely qualify as food.

"That was a while ago," she points out.

"My body is not so weak that it must constantly be fed in order to function adequately."

"Well, mine is," she says. "I'm going to order something. What do you want?"

"I don't want anything...because _I'm_ not hungry."

She opens the drawer that is closest to the sink. In it are a stack of take-away menus that Erik collected from nearby restaurants. She retrieves a handful of them and then closes the drawer.

She begins to sift through the menus.

"How about pizza?"

You snatch the menus from her hand and toss them onto the counter.

"Are you daft? Is there something wrong with your ears? I just told you...I'm not hungry."

"Except that you're lying," she says.

She gathers up the menus and surveys them once more. She selects one from the pile and puts the rest back in the drawer.

"What do you want on your pizza?" she asks.

You sigh. You head still aches, and you are dangerously close to losing your temper. You want her to leave. Yet, for some reason, she seems to believe that you genuinely require her assistance. You think perhaps you need only convince her that you are not completely helpless. And thus, her intervention is not required. Then surely she will be on her way.

You grit your teeth and force yourself to smile.

"Look...I appreciate your concern for my well being. But...I'm not a child. I do not need to be chaperoned."

"I know that."

"And it really is getting late."

She raises an eyebrow at you.

"It's like eight-thirty."

"Nevertheless...as I have already stated, I am not hungry. I am in no mood for company, and I would very much like to be alone right now."

"Yeah...I don't think that's such a good idea."

You sigh.

"Of course, you don't."

She taps the menu against her chin.

"My father raised me. Did you know that?"

"Why would I know that?" you huff. "Why would I know _anything_ about you at all?"

"I thought Erik might have mentioned it."

"Nope."

"Or Thor."

You grimace at the mention of your brother's name.

"Thor and I didn't really talk all that much. Too busy trying to maim one another and all that."

"My mother died in a car accident when I was young. I don't really remember her."

You have no idea why she is sharing this with you. Especially when you just asked her to leave. You know not what to say. So, you nod, politely.

"My father died of cancer when I was an undergrad," she adds. "I remember when it happened, that I just wanted to be alone. I wanted everyone to just...go away. And whenever anyone tried to talk to me, I felt like punching them in the face."

You recall meeting Jane for the first time. You introduced yourself and she struck you in the jaw shortly after. Not that you can blame her, of course. Given the circumstances, it was a reasonable response.

"That at least explains your penchant for violence," you quip, dryly.

"My father knew that he was dying," she continues. "He'd apparently known for a while. But he didn't tell me. He didn't want to distract me from my studies. He knew that if I knew he was sick, I would drop everything for him."

"Why are you telling me this?" you finally ask.

"He and Erik...they were colleagues, and close friends. Before my father died, he made Erik promise to look after me, make sure I ate and got out of bed, make sure I finished school."

"So?"

"All my friends...I kept pushing them away. And after a while, they did exactly what I asked. They left me alone."

"I assume that Erik did not."

She smiles, wistfully.

"He just would _not_ go away."

"He can be very persistent," you agree.

"I was annoyed at the time, of course. But later on I realized… _that's_ what got me through it. Being alone doesn't solve anything. In fact, it usually makes things worse."

"Well, I'm not going _through_ anything," you explain. "So...however admirable your intentions, I regret to inform you that your persistence is sorely misplaced."

"Yeah, I told myself that too, that I wasn't going through anything. I thought if I just kept moving forward, that I could pretend that nothing had changed. Except that…everything had changed."

She is staring at you now. And you realize that your mouth is hanging open. You close it and lick your lips, thoughtfully.

"I...don't know what you want from me," you admit.

She holds the menu up in front of your face.

"Right now, I just want to know what you want on your pizza."


	13. Chapter 13

_February 26, 2024_

In the last six years you have sampled a wide variety of Midgardian food, the majority of which left much to be desired. You have eaten _pizza_ more than a handful of times, and never been terribly impressed. The pizza that Jane orders is no different in appearance or composition from any other pizza that you've consumed. And yet, it is somehow far more appetizing. The crust is full, and just the right texture...soft on the inside and firm on the outside. It reminds you of the bread you ate as a child, those huge, round loaves that were baked in ovens of stone. You quickly deduce that you were far more famished than you originally allowed yourself to believe. But it is more than that. There is something undeniably comforting about eating hot food. Not something pre-packaged that was hastily prepared with an electronic device...something that was actually exposed to the heat of a natural flame.

Jane sits across from you at the table. She does not lift her entire slice of pizza to her mouth and bite directly into it as you've seen Erik do before. She tears away tiny pieces of it with her fingers and eats them one at a time. You watch her for several minutes...her thoughtful expressions, how delicately she brings the morsels to her lips.

All your life you were told that you had a way with words. And yet, somehow it managed to escape everyone's attention that while you were adept at speaking, you didn't necessarily enjoy doing it. Still, you are eventually torn between your disdain for idle chatter and your need to distract yourself from your own thoughts by filling the silence with noise.

You recall your mother counseling you on how to converse effectively with females. _Encourage her first to talk about herself. If she wants to know about you, she will ask._ Sound advice...since the last thing you want to do right now is talk about yourself.

"Tell me," you begin, "how are you occupying yourself these days?"

You expect Jane to be skeptical of your query. But she does not appear remotely suspicious. She finishes chewing her food before she replies.

"Still research, mostly. That's the only plus side to the war, I suppose."

"What is?"

"Job security. Lots of new data to analyze, and not that many people who are qualified to do it."

You nod. Despite the war's profound effect on its economy, the United States was still essentially a capitalist nation. A person's survival was dependent entirely upon their ability to acquire currency or yoke themselves with someone with means. Erik spoke on many occasions about what a relief it was to finally procure a position that allowed him to purchase his own home. _Settling down_ , he called it.

"No husband?" you ask.

It's a logical question. Or at least, it would be where you come from. Not that there weren't Asgardian women whose pursuits lay outside of marriage or motherhood. But they were few and far between. Still, you regret your inquiry almost immediately because you fear it will be interpreted as romantic interest.

"You humans exist so briefly," you explain, when she doesn't respond right away. " I just assumed you'd be married by now…parading around a small litter of young in your energy inefficient vehicle."

You wonder if perhaps you insulted her. But after a few seconds, she smiles.

"You flatter me."

"I guess my brother was a pretty tough act to follow," you muse.

"Well, pretty much everyone is a step down, once you've dated a god."

"Dated?" you pry.

Her use of the verb seems to deviate from its literal definition.

"Um...it's like when two people are courting each other. When they go out together, it's called dating."

"Ah."

"I did try for a few years to have a baby," she confides.

"I'm no expert on human reproduction," you say. "But I was under the impression that it required the participation of a mate."

"Oh...well, there are ways around that."

"Is that so? Such as what?"

"Artificial insemination from a donor."

"I'm not sure I want to know how that's done," you remark.

While you can certainly imagine how one might go about being _artificially inseminated,_ you would rather not.

She laughs.

"Well, I'm not sure I want to tell you."

"You'd really let an anonymous man sire your child?"

"They're not really _anonymous_. They're pre-screened in advance. You can pick your donor from a database. You can see their pictures and everything."

"How crude," you remark. "Surely there are more efficient ways to procreate...and more enjoyable."

"More enjoyable, maybe," she agrees. "It didn't work out anyway."

"Oh."

"Apparently, it wasn't meant to be. With my family's medical history, it's probably for the best."

The look upon on her face implies that she no longer wishes to speak of it, which makes you wonder why she brought it up in the first place.

"Terribly sorry," you mumble.

"Oh," she says, suddenly.

She holds up one finger, as though she is just now recalling something of importance.

"What?"

"I got your mail." She wipes her hands with a napkin. Then she turns around and grabs up a stack of letters from the counter behind her. "I saw it on the front doorstep when the pizza came."

"I thought they were supposed to put it in the box, outside."

"Well, they probably _did_ put it in the box," she points out. "But it looks like the letters piled up. The postal worker must have brought them to the door."

"Rubbish, most likely," you tell her.

You never gave much consideration to the mail. When Erik first relocated to the hospital, you made an effort to collect it every few days. Gradually, those days evolved into weeks. And it troubled you not, as rarely was any sort of correspondence addressed directly to you. The few items that bore your name were advertisements and offers for credit cards and bank loans. Erik referred to such items as _junk mail_ , and disposed of them straightaway.

She does not, however. She sifts through the stack of envelopes instead.

"This one isn't."

"What is it?"

"It's from the DMV."

"The what?"

"Department of Motor Vehicles…it's got your name on it, and Erik's."

You cannot fathom why something would be addressed to both you and Erik.

"Do you want me to open it?" she asks.

You toss your hand.

"I don't care."

Jane opens the envelope. Inside are two sheets of paper. She unfolds them and scans the first sheet.

"Your registration is expired."

"My what?"

"Registration? If you want to drive, you have to register your vehicle with the state. According to this, the registration on Erik's car expired 6 months ago. It says here they've sent several notices already."

There's a stack of mail that you've accumulated in the last year, all of which is addressed to Erik. You never studied at it all that closely, mostly because you honestly didn't think it was that important. Erik told you, around the time of his diagnosis, not to concern yourself with bills, because they would all be paid automatically for the next five years...some of them even longer. He explained that the house itself was paid for and that the only bills that needed to be paid were the various utilities, such as gas and electricity, and the internet and phone service. He mentioned that his car insurance policy included you as a driver. But he never mentioned anything about vehicle registration. Of course, it's entirely possible that he simply forgot.

"You're lucky you haven't been pulled over," she informs you.

"What am I supposed to do?" you inquire, since you genuinely have no idea.

"You pay it. You can probably do it online. But with all the late fees it's going to be like...four hundred dollars."

"Oh," you say, quietly.

You have only a general idea of how much money that is. The only purchases you make are online grocery orders and the most you ever spent at one time was a hundred and fifty dollars.

"Do you have the money to pay it?"

You do...technically. Erik gave you a plastic card that he said would allow you to withdraw funds from an account. The card even has your name printed on it...something he cited as a legal necessity. You did not question it at the time. But you only ever use the card to deposit fuel into Erik's car. You recall Erik saying that it could also be used to acquire paper currency. When Erik bestowed it upon you, you quickly memorized the number that was printed on the front. Even that was unnecessary. Since whenever you order things online, you always use the same website, and the information is auto-populated. You also have a small amount of cash that you have been carrying around for quite some time. Though you never found reason to spend it.

"If you like," she offers, "we can go out tomorrow and get you some more food...and whatever else you might need."

"Out?" You echo, sheepishly.

"Yeah, you know... _out_. As in...outside of this house."

You have no desire to go _out_ for anything. What little traveling you do is based purely on necessity. Once, not long after the war ended, you ventured to a local _supermarket_. It was a huge, brightly lit expanse with a ridiculously excessive selection of items. It seemed as though every person you encountered was staring at you. A few even captured your likeness with their cellular phones. You shudder to think what became of those images. You certainly never went out of your way to find out. You left the shop without purchasing anything. When you returned to the house, you were too embarrassed to tell Erik what happened. Not long after, he showed you how you could use the computer to order food online and have it delivered to the house.

The butcher shop you sometimes frequented is small and owned by a husband and a wife, who are very clearly not American...although you cannot not begin to guess their country of origin. You recall Erik theorizing that they might be Jamaican. But you know not whether that was an accurate observation. The couple is either truly oblivious to your identity or they are simply happy to have your business.

"Where do you normally shop?" Jane asks.

You shake your head.

"I don't."

"Where do you get your food, then?"

"I order it on the computer."

She rolls her eyes.

"I figured...from where?"

You do not respond.

"Is it Wegman's? I know they deliver. Erik shopped there before when he lived in Baltimore."

You know that Baltimore is a city. But you do not recall Erik mentioning having lived there.

"Maybe."

"The one on Onondaga?"

You shrug. Even though you know she is correct, you cannot resist the urge to be evasive. Between discovering your unpaid vehicle registration and her insatiable curiosity, you are beginning to feel anxious.

"I'm just trying to figure out why your refrigerator is so empty."

"Sometimes I get busy," you lie.

"Doing what?"

"Just...things."

"I can understand being too busy to buy food. But I used the last of your detergent when I started that laundry earlier...and you're out of a lot of other stuff too."

You have no idea what stuff you are _out of_ , and right now you don't actually care.

"It's not a big deal," you claim, flippantly.

You frown immediately at your use of the phrase _big deal_ , which you cannot remember ever using before now. You know not the origin of the phrase. It's something that Erik would say. In your mind, you can picture his face...that reassuring smile he would give you whenever you were convinced that you somehow managed to ruin absolutely everything, yet again. _Hey...it's not a big deal._

Thankfully, Jane does not question your use of the phrase.

"It's a _big deal_ if you don't have anything to eat," she counters, "and if you can't wash your clothes."

"I can order all of that on the computer," you remind her.

"Then why haven't you?"

"As I already said, I get busy."

"As I already asked... _doing what_?"

You feel the urge to pick your fingers once more. At least this time, you are conscious of it. You fold your hands in your lap instead. If by some chance you do surrender to temptation, your hands will be under the table where Jane cannot see them.

"Is that really any of your business?

"Are you agoraphobic?"

"Am I what?"

You recognize the word…parts of it, anyway. You studied Greek etymology in your youth. You know that an _agora_ is a marketplace or a wide open space. And the suffix, phobic, means _fear_. You deduce that the word refers to a fear of open spaces.

"Agoraphobic," she repeats.

"Oh, you people have a word for everything," you say, dismissively. "And an expensive remedy to go with, no doubt."

"It's a documented condition."

"I'm sure it is."

"I had this roommate in college who was agoraphobic," she shares. "The only place she went was to class. The rest of the time she stayed in her room. She had a nervous breakdown one day when there was a gas leak and they had to evacuate our building. She eventually had to be hospitalized."

You unfold your hands and begin picking away at the skin around your right thumb.

"Now, there's a fascinating tale that has nothing to do with me whatsoever."

"So…we can go grocery shopping, then?"

"You're a crafty sort, aren't you. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a witch."

She smirks.

"How do you know I'm not?"

You realize that Jane is probably not going away anytime soon. The last thing you need is for her to diagnose you with some imaginary malady. Perhaps your participation in this little excursion will serve as sufficient evidence that you're not on the verge of a mental collapse.

"Fine," you concede, doing your best to appear nonchalant. "We can go tomorrow."

She is pleased, of course.

"Great."

When you are both finished eating, Jane wraps the few remaining slices of pizza in metallic foil and deposits them in the refrigerator.

The box the pizza was delivered in is wider across than the waste bin in the kitchen. You decide to carry it outside to toss into one of the larger receptacles. You normally wouldn't bother. But doing so means putting some distance between you and Jane, even if it's only for a few minutes. Thus, you eagerly make the brief trek across the yard to where the bins are located. When you open the lid to the largest container, you see the bag of rubbish that Jane removed from the kitchen earlier. Sitting atop it is the bottle of Erik's discarded medication.

You truly weren't expecting to see it again. You knew that Jane absconded with it. But as intelligent as she is, you assumed she had destroyed it, or at least put it somewhere you weren't likely to find it. You stare at the bottle, deliberating your options. On one hand, it seems wasteful to merely throw the pills away. On the other, you know that Erik no longer has any use for them. He receives all the medication he needs at the hospital.

You should leave them where they are, and you know it. You should shut the container and walk away. Because if you retrieve the pills, you are basically admitting to yourself that you plan to take them at some point.

Except that you kind of _do_ want to take them. Despite how silly they made you feel, they also provided you with a welcome respite from the barrage of unpleasant thoughts that are constantly flooding your brain. And so, after a few minutes, you snatch the bottle up and store it away with magic.

"I know I'm being a pain..." Jane begins, when you come back inside.

"Yes, you _are_ being a pain," you reply, automatically.

You have no idea what she was planning to say next. Mostly, you are hoping to distract her from the fact that you took far too long to dispose of the pizza box. You make your way into the living room and she follows close behind.

"Do you think that maybe I could turn up the heat?" she asks.

You recall her earlier assessment of it being _freezing in here_.

Before Erik relocated to the hospital, he preferred to keep the thermostat set at around sixty-eight degrees. Which wasn't necessarily ideal for you. But it was tolerable. Whenever it became too warm in the house, you would simply go outside. Unless it was night, in which case you closed the vents in your room and cracked open a window. Now that Erik is no longer in the house, you generally keep the thermostat set somewhere between fifty-seven and sixty degrees. Though you doubt very much that Jane would care to know such things.

"I'd wager that it's plenty warm wherever you live," you tease, sitting down on the sofa. You prop your legs up on the coffee table. "You should go there so you can enjoy it."

She folds her arms across her chest.

"You're not going to get rid of me _that_ easily."

"You don't even have a change of clothing," you point out.

"I always carry an overnight bag in the trunk of my car."

"Sleep in many strange places, do we?"

"When you live off of research grants, you don't always have a permanent address. So...yes."

You nod. You aren't entirely sure what she means. But you would rather not probe for an explanation.

"I actually lived in an RV once," she adds.

"An RV is..." you prompt, with a wave of your hand.

"Technically it's vehicle. It's kind of like a little apartment on wheels. It's not much bigger than a bus."

You know what a bus is, at least. You've passed them before, while driving to and from the hospital. You could not imagine residing in such a small space. Even your cell in the dungeon was larger than that. Of course, you were also confined to it both day and night. You could not simply come and go as you pleased.

"So, you're just moving in here?"

"I'm not _moving in._ " she corrects. "I'm visiting."

"And why is that?"

"Because you need me."

You find yourself laughing. Though there's nothing particularly amusing about this situation. While you do not agree with her assessment that you _need_ her, you are feeling somewhat ambivalent at the moment. Even so, being in the presence of another person demands a certain degree of energy. And since Erik's departure, you've grown accustomed to being alone.

"I don't suppose I have any choice in the matter," you ponder, aloud.

You know full well that you could forcibly eject her from the house with little effort. And you suspect that she knows it too. You know not what's stopping you.

She regards you, coyly.

"You _really_ want me to leave?"

You briefly consider telling her _yes_ , that you would very much like her to leave. Wasn't it obvious? But there's something about the question that makes you feel incredibly shy.

"I don't care," you say, instead.

After she adjusts the thermostat, she sits down next to you on the sofa.

"I wanted to show you something."

She pulls her phone from her pock and swipes her finger across the screen several times. She swipes again and again, opening folders and scrolling through their contents. Eventually, she finds what she is looking for.

She hands you her phone.

"I found this the other day," she explains. "I thought you might want to see it."

You stare at the device in your hand. On the screen there is a picture of Thor. He is smiling. He looks happy, carefree. You know not when it was taken, although you can assume it was during the years he was on Earth, courting Jane.

You let your other hand hover over the phone. Slowly and carefully, you pull the image from the screen and craft it into a three dimensional representation. The Thor you see before you is not life sized. But he is posed exactly as the one in the picture. Your magic breathes life into him. He blinks, still smiling. A small noise of amusement escapes his lips. You gaze at him for a moment. As real as he appears, you know that he is only an illusion.

Seeing Thor's face after all this time, even if it is just a digital representation, evokes a torrent of deeply buried memories...not just of Thor, but of your parents, of Asgard. As far removed you are from the life you once knew, you are equally unprepared for such a blatant reminder. You find yourself unable to awaken the rage and spite that have always protected you from feeling things like sorrow and regret. And you don't like it. Not one bit.

"Why are you showing me this?" you demand, bluntly. You thrust the phone back at her. "Why would you think I'd want to see this?"

You are unnerved by your own candor.

Apparently, so is she. Because her brow furrows with concern.

"Are you alright?"

"I don't know why you keep asking me that," you snap.

"Because...I guess I'm hoping that you will eventually tell me the truth."

"I don't see why I should have to tell you anything," you return, loudly. "Who are you to me, anyway? No one!"

While your words are sharp, your annoyance is halfhearted. You're not angry. Though you so want to be. You so want to be on fire with rage, for it to course through you like a poison that you can draw forth and direct at others. You think perhaps if you want it badly enough, the fury will come. But it does not.

You know not what the truth is anymore. You grew up with one truth, only to later find out it was a lie. And while that realization shattered your world, it did not destroy it. Not completely. It was Thanos who did that. And then you were forced to build a new truth. But had you actually succeeded in doing so? Or were you merely waiting for someone or something else to come along and build it for you?

If she is offended by your outburst, she hides it well.

"You don't have to talk to me. But you should probably talk to someone."

"Like who, for instance?"

"I don't know...Steve?"

You chuckle at the thought of it. Steve is so very much like Thor, with his rigid, polarized view of the world. To Steve, people are either good or evil. There is no in between. And while you may have escaped incarceration for the time being, you are fairly certain that your moral ambiguity precludes you from ever being classified as _good_ in his eyes. Despite his flaws, you suspect that Steve is probably quite genuine. But even if he wanted to understand you, his fixed mindset would never allow it. You could not imagine confiding in him about anything.

You don't want to think about this anymore. And you don't want to answer any more questions. Though you slept just the night before and took a nap hours earlier, you are longing for solitude. And you know the only way you will find it is by retreating to your room. You doubt you could make yourself sleep again so soon. But then, you recall the pills you recovered from the rubbish bin outside, and the warning on the label: _may cause drowsiness_.

"I'm going to bed," you declare, suddenly.

She looks at the clock and then back at you.

"It's only ten-thirty."

"Well, I'm very tired," you lie.

She raises her eyebrow, skeptically. You know that she probably doesn't believe you. But you cannot bring yourself to care.

"Goodnight, I guess," she says.

"And where exactly do _you_ plan to sleep?" you inquire, casually.

She smacks the cushion beside her.

"Couch folds out into a bed."

"Grand," you reply, pleased to learn that she will be spending the night downstairs. You feared she might be intending to sleep in Erik's room.

You rise from the sofa. You make your way upstairs and into your own room, pulling the door shut behind you. Though you have not done so in quite some time, you secure it with a spell.

You sequester yourself in the adjoining washroom and summon the bottle of pills. You once again consider the appropriate dosage. Clearly you took far too many last time. It also didn't help that you consumed them with alcohol. You wish to be subdued, but not rendered incoherent. You dump a small quantity of the tablets into your hand, keep four of them and return the rest to the bottle.

After storing the bottle away once more, you pop the tablets into your mouth and wash them down with water from the sink.

You reach into the shower and turn on the water. Then you strip off your clothing and leave it in a pile on the floor. Perhaps you will tend to it later. Or perhaps you won't.

You remove the elastic band from your hair and shake it out. While you are running a brush through it, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. You gaze at yourself for a moment. For the first time, you notice that there are dark circles under your eyes. You know not how long they've been there. It's been six years since the war. But you appear to have aged by several decades.

Thankfully, the vapor from the shower begins to obscure your reflection.

Ordinarily, while showering, you prefer to leave the washroom door open and the door to your room ajar. With Jane in the house, you're not taking any chances. You don't mind the heat of the water coming down on you. Hot water can actually be quite pleasant, in limited amounts. But you do mind the steam that gathers…far too quickly. The washroom is such a small space, comparatively speaking, with only minimal ventilation. Washrooms on Asgard had walls of stone with high ceilings and clerestory windows, designed specifically to allow the steam to escape. You know that humans once utilized similar architectural elements. Though for some reason, they abandoned them long ago.

You step into the shower and press your hands against the tile on the wall. You stretch out your back and let the water run down your body. As good as it feels, you do not enjoy being naked for long periods of time. And so, you quickly wash yourself. You shut off the water and wring out your long hair. Then you get out and dry off.

Your pajama bottoms are a plain, black flannel material. Your long sleeved gray shirt has a peculiar texture to it… _waffle weave_ is what Erik called it. You have a pair of pants that match the shirt. But they are far too form fitting, especially now that there's a lady in the house.

You get dressed. Even though your hair is still damp, you lie down on your bed and stare at the ceiling. It doesn't take long before you begin to feel drowsy. And you are relieved when sleep finally claims you.


	14. Chapter 14

_February 27, 2024_

It is dark when you enter the hospital. The only visible light is a dull, orange glow that is coming from the street lamps in the parking lot. You know not what time it is. But there is no one seated at the front desk. And what is even stranger, the doors are all unlocked and you are able to enter the building without any sort of interference. You pass right through the lobby to where the elevators are located. When you press the button to summon the lift, however, nothing happens. You press the button several more times. And still, the lift does not arrive. While this, too, should probably strike you as being odd, it does not. You simply head for the stairwell, and briskly jog the two flights up to your destination.

The corridors of the third floor are unlit as well. But you are not deterred. You guide yourself down the hallway by dragging your hand along the wall. You experience no real trepidation until you notice that, just as in the lobby, there are no people anywhere...no nurses or doctors, nor any patients. Though the rooms you pass are almost pitch black, you can somehow sense that they are empty. And you approach Erik's room with increasing dread. Because you fear that it will be empty as well.

When you enter room 371 you are relieved to discover that it is both lit and there is indeed a man lying in the bed. But when you are close enough to see his face, you realize that the man before you is not Erik at all.

It is Odin. And yet...it is not. He does not appear as he should. He is thin and frail. His hair is no longer silver and full, but stringy and white. His skin is practically transparent, the outline of his bones and blood vessels clearly visible underneath. There are tubes in his nose and wires affixed to his chest. Where his eye-patch should be, there is only a crude bandage.

When he detects your presence, his one good eye opens. He lifts his hand and reaches out for you. His arm is trembling.

 _"Loki,"_ he rasps. His breathing is labored. It is evident that he is in pain. _"Why...did...you...leave...me?"_

Your attempts to answer him are fruitless. Your mouth becomes dry, to the point that you are practically choking. You try to moisten it with your tongue. But you cannot produce any saliva. Since you cannot speak, you simply grab Odin's outstretched hand. As soon as you touch him, his body disintegrates...filling the bed with a pile of dust.

The sight before you is horrifying. You try desperately to scream, to make any sound at all. If not just to protest what you are seeing. But your mouth fills with dust as well. Your limbs feel heavy and it is difficult to move them. You fight frantically against whatever unseen force is holding you in place. As soon as you are able, you turn and run from the room. You flee down the corridor, the walls bending and distorting around you. They vibrate and change shape. The floor comes apart in pieces and gives way, revealing a vast darkness below. And once again, you are falling.

It is the banging that wakes you. You hear it first in your dream...somewhere deep in the background, like the steady beat of a drum. But as you gradually regain consciousness, you realize that it is not a drum at all. It is someone pounding their fist on the door to your room.

You rise from your bed, hastily, eager to put an end to the noise. When you stand, the room shifts and it takes you a moment to orient yourself. You lift the spell on the door and open it, just wide enough to see who is on the other side.

Jane is standing in the hallway. She is out of breath, her eyes wide with alarm.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Nothing," you reply, automatically.

"Are you alright?"

The expression on her face suggests that she fully expects your response to be _no_.

"I'm fine."

You glance at the clock. It is 3:47. Despite having slept for over five hours, your head still aches. You are dizzy. You feel hot, and your hair is damp. It's not just from when you showered, either. You are sweaty all over...lingering effects of the pills, no doubt. You can recall only bits and pieces of your dream. But that is more than enough. You shudder to imagine what it was that compelled her to look in on you.

She lingers, almost as though she is waiting for something more to happen.

"Maybe you should leave your door open," she suggests.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"In case you need something."

"Just what is it that you think I might _need_?"

She seems confused.

"I...don't know."

"Well, goodnight," you say, curtly.

You know that you are being rude. But you do not care. You are hoping she will take the hint and leave you alone. After a few seconds, she issues an awkward nod. You wait for her to turn around and descend the staircase. You once again secure the door with a spell and retreat to your bed. You are still hot and sweaty. And so, you lie on top of your covers and close your eyes. In your current state, you fall asleep rather easily.

You dream the same dream, several times at least. There are minor differences, of course. But it is basically the same. You enter the dark hospital and make your way to Erik's room, only to find Odin waiting for you. You watch him perish again and again, turning to dust in your hands. You run from the room, and the floor gives way beneath you. You fall and you fall and you fall. Unlike the first time, however, the falling does not wake you. It only takes you back to the start of your nightmare, so you can experience it over and over.

When you finally wake, it is morning. The clock reads half past seven. While you do not feel well rested at all, your headache is at least gone. You would prefer to stay in bed a while longer. But you can already hear Jane moving around downstairs. You assume it's only a matter of time before she comes knocking on your door again. So, you go to your dresser and pick out some clothing to wear for the day.

Since most of your garments are apparently being laundered, you only have few items in your dresser to choose from. You select a pair of black jeans that you have not worn in well over a year. You dig through your drawers and find a gray t-shirt with the N.A.S.A. logo on it. You are pretty sure that it belongs to Erik and only ended up in your room by accident. It's a little baggy on you. But it fits just fine. And so, you decide to wear it anyway. Instead of removing your long sleeved shirt, you simply pull the t-shirt on over it. Once you are dressed, you go to the washroom and brush your hair. You typically braid it or at least pull it back with a tie of some sort. But today you cannot be bothered. You let it fall in loose waves over your shoulders and down the center of your back.

You eventually make your way downstairs, where Jane is seated at the kitchen table working on her computer.

"I found some granola bars in the pantry," she informs you, closing her laptop. "Chocolate chip."

You don't acknowledge her discovery. You were already aware of the box of granola bars. They have been in the pantry for quite some time. You know not whose idea it was to eat granola in the first place. But you liken it to chewing lightly sweetened gravel.

You head instead for the refrigerator and pull out the package of leftover food from last night. You wonder whether the pizza will be as good cold as it is warm. You recall seeing Erik eat it that way on more than a few occasions. You unwrap the foil, remove a slice of pizza and take a bite.

You grimace as the flavors and sensations collide with your tongue. You conclude that, perhaps, cold pizza is an acquired taste for Midgardians. Still, you really would rather not heat up the oven just to bake a single slice of pizza. Fortunately, there is a smaller oven on the counter, to the left of the sink. A _toaster_ , Erik called it. You open the little glass door and place the slice of pizza in there. You turn the dial a few notches. You're not really sure how long to cook it. You set it for ten minutes. You figure you can always keep an eye on it. Certainly you will smell it burning, long before it has a chance to be reduced to a charred mass.

Jane watches you, curiously.

"What were you dreaming about last night?" she asks.

"I don't remember," you respond, a little too eagerly.

It's quite obvious that you are lying. And thus, you don't look at her face. Instead, you look at the toaster. You focus on the ticking sound it makes, as the dial turns. You knew there was a chance she might bring it up. You were just hoping that she wouldn't. You consider turning around and going right back upstairs. You're not really that hungry anyway. Let the pizza burn.

She rises from the table.

"You were yelling," she adds.

"Was I?" you answer, feigning surprise.

Of course, you were yelling. Of course, you were. And now your mind is reeling. Because that dream last night was more vivid than your usual fare. But they were far from the first nightmares you've had since you came to this house. Which makes you wonder...whether you ever yelled before when Erik was still here to hear it.

She moves closer to you, and then even closer, making it difficult to avoid her gaze.

"Why are you acting so weird?"

You chuckle, nervously. You are practically pinned up against the counter, now. You could effortlessly shove her to the floor and leave the room. As annoying as she is, you have no desire to do her harm. After all, it's not her fault that you're a complete lunatic.

"I don't think you know me well enough to determine when I am acting _weird_."

"That's probably true. But you don't think it's weird to yell in your sleep?"

"I had a nightmare," you say, blandly.

You think perhaps if you provide her with a little information, she will be satisfied and leave it alone.

Unfortunately, all it does is whet her appetite.

"What was it about?" she presses.

"I honestly don't remember," you assert, once more.

"But you remember that it was a nightmare."

"Correct."

" _I'm so sorry."_

You regard her statement, strangely.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what you said...when you were yelling."

You wonder if it's worth it to bother disguising your flushed cheeks. There seems little point and you are too weary to bother.

"Is that so?" you return, coyly.

"Who were you talking to?"

You have no intention of answering her question. Since apparently you also have no intention of shoving her aside and making a hasty exit, you opt for the next best thing...a distraction.

You scan the room...the walls, the floor, the table...her laptop computer. Your eyes land on the toaster. The coils inside it are now glowing a bright orange. Purely on impulse, you reach out and press your hand against the glass door. It doesn't even hurt at first. And so, you press harder. Only after about five seconds does the heat begin to sear the outer layers of your skin.

When Jane realizes what you are doing, she grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the hot surface. You make no attempt to stop her. Nor do you prevent her from dragging you over to the sink.

"You burned yourself," she declares, in utter disbelief. "On purpose!"

You don't say anything. She turns the faucet and cold water flows from the tap. You let your arm go limp, and she tugs on the dead weight of your limb, bringing your hand under the stream of water.

"I cannot believe you would rather burn your own flesh than talk about your feelings," she declares, crossly. "Actually, you know what? I can believe it. I _totally_ believe it..."

"I abandoned my father," you blurt out.

It is bizarre to simply say the words out loud, without any sort of flair or ceremony. You have never discussed it with anyone before. Not even with Erik. You know not whether you are motivated by a genuine longing to confess, or a desire to distract her from even deeper matters. And you don't really care.

At the time, you were thinking only of revenge and survival. You did not regard Odin as possessing any degree of true vulnerability, and you were unconcerned about how he might be affected. You know not why you are suddenly confronted with remorse for your actions.

"Since you're so desperate to know my personal business," you explain.

Her eyes narrow a bit, as she processes your words.

"Abandoned him how?"

"I...left him here on Earth...alone, without his memories."

"Uh huh."

"He was essentially powerless."

You ponder telling her that you also chained him to a rock and tied strips of raw meat to his neck. You are basically daring her to think even less of you than she already does. And yet, she is completely unfazed.

"And you couldn't find a way to communicate that _without_ burning your hand?"

You ignore her question.

"You might recall that he imprisoned me."

"For what happened in New York."

You tilt your head, thoughtfully.

"He told me that the only reason he'd spared me execution was because my mother begged for my life."

She frowns.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Yes, actually. It does."

"I can disapprove of your actions and still care how you feel."

"Why would you care how I feel?"

"I don't know," she concedes. "I just do."

When you begin to move away from the sink, she stops you.

"Keep your hand under the water," she scolds.

"It doesn't even hurt," you point out.

"Just...humor me, okay?"

You lean back over the sink, open your hand and inspect your palm. It is no longer bright red, as it was when you initially burned it. Only where you pressed hardest did an actual blister form on the surface of your skin. Given your accelerated rate of cellular respiration, it will likely be healed by the end of the day.

"Sometimes I think I would rather be dead, than to have known that my own father wanted to kill me."

She shakes her head.

"I don't believe it," she dismisses.

You roll your eyes.

"Of course you don't."

"No," she clarifies. "I'm sure he said it. I just don't believe that he meant it."

"Why would he say it if he didn't mean it?"

"Haven't you ever said anything you didn't mean?"

You have, of course. Many times. Too many times, probably. You contemplate telling her so. But her eyes are so big, and so full of compassion that you have to look away.

"People say things they don't mean all the time," she explains, "especially when they're hurt or angry."

You sigh.

"What reason did _he_ have to be hurt or angry?"

"Maybe he had reasons you knew nothing about."

You recall Erik making a similar observation.

"Such as what?" you pry.

"Maybe he was worried about you. Maybe...he was just trying to scare you."

"What purpose would that have served? He'd already condemned me to life in the dungeon. It was a bit late for a cautionary tale."

"Well, you're not in the dungeon now...are you?"

"That wasn't Odin's doing," you correct. "It was Thor who liberated me...so we could kill Malekith and destroy the Aether, remember? And he would have gladly deposited me right back in my cell, had he not left me on Svartelfheim."

"He thought you were dead."

"So did I."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember lying there. I was just waiting for death to come. I think maybe I was even hoping for it. There was something about that realm, something about the convergence maybe. I was able to tap into a tremendous source of power. I was able to heal myself. At least well enough to facilitate travel."

"Where did you go?"

You chuckle to yourself, as you recall it.

"I could have gone anywhere in the universe. So...naturally I went back to Asgard. I might as well have returned directly to the dungeon for all the good it did me."

"Then, why did you go back?"

"I wasn't exactly overwhelmed with options. And Thanos was searching for me. It was the safest choice."

She reaches for the faucet and turns off the water. Then she pats your hand dry with a paper towel.

"Don't go anywhere."

"Where would I go?" you mutter to yourself.

She leaves the room. You can hear her moving around upstairs. A minute later, she enters the kitchen carrying a metal box...blue with a red symbol on top. You've seen it before. Erik kept it stored in his washroom. Though you know not what it contains.

She sets the box down on the kitchen table and beckons you to sit beside her there. She opens the box and takes out a tube of some sort of ointment, a roll of gauze and some tape. She squeezes some of the ointment out and applies it to your hand. Then she wraps your hand in gauze and secures it with the tape. It's entirely unnecessary. But there is something about her ministrations that you find almost agreeable. And so, you allow her to tend to your wound.

"So," she says, "you said you returned to Asgard. How did that lead to your abandoning Odin on Earth?"

You recall the thrill of dumping Odin at the retirement home. At the time, you did not even fully grasp the significance of such a place. Asgardians did not become frail or feeble minded in their old age. You were still enraged about your mother's death, about Odin's words during your trial, about being abandoned by Thor. It seemed a perfectly reasonable response. And even so...you did not consider it to be a long term solution. You fully anticipated that Odin would shake free of his spell and return to Asgard. As time went on and Odin failed to dethrone you, you began to wonder if your father was dead. Finding him on Earth was an unexpected relief. But seeing him in that fragile state broke something deep inside you...the effects of which you failed to appreciate until now.

"I disguised myself as Odin and took the throne...Thor left to be with you. And then I put a spell on our father and banished him to Earth. For several years he was stranded and I was king."

"It sounds like ruling wasn't all you'd hoped it would be."

"It had its moments. But all I'd really done was trade one lie for another."

"Or perhaps it didn't mean anything, because your family wasn't there to see it."

You peek at her face again. You search her eyes for some hint of malice or treachery. But you detect only concern.

"I remember leaving him there, and just walking away. I felt justified. I felt...vindicated. I hated him so much."

"Hated," she repeats. "Past tense?"

"It's such a potent feeling, hate. And yet...strange how quickly it can abate."

"Anger has a way of fading."

She's right, you know. You recall how, over time, your anger subsided. And oh, how you missed it. How you wished you could call it back to you. For when rage dies, there is nothing left to feel but hurt.

"I think it's possible that I even began to miss him," you admit.

"Did you think about bringing him back?"

"Many times...but it was already too late by then. It was like having a beast by the tail. You're safe...so long as you don't let go of it. I knew if I ever blew my cover that Thanos would find me. And I was right. It was not long after..."

You don't finish the sentence. You don't want to think of it, let alone speak of it.

"And you never saw your father again?" she asks.

"I did, actually. Thor and I saw him once more...on Earth, for about five minutes."

"What was that like?"

"He was not the man I remembered at all."

"How so?"

"When I was a boy he was so large and...intimidating. But this time he was different. He was soft and small. He wasn't angry. It was almost as though he was...happy to see me."

"He probably was."

"I cannot imagine why."

"Because you were his son," she says, as though it should be obvious.

"He was right there next to me. Maybe it was because Thor was there too...I don't know. I couldn't summon the courage to speak, to say something...anything. I thought I would have another chance. I thought there would be more time. There has _always_ been more time...until there wasn't. And then he was gone."

"What would you have said?"

You laugh, sadly.

"That's just it. I don't know."

"Well...maybe you should think about it."

You shake your head.

"I would rather not."

"Why?"

"It is in the past. I cannot change it by dwelling on it. It matters not."

"But it _does_ matter. It matters a lot."

"It's just childish foolishness."

"I don't think it's childish...and it's not foolishness."

"When I found out about all the lies...I hated him so much, I could hardly breathe. When I saw him that day, nothing had changed. And yet..."

"Maybe you just needed time."

"I did not intend to forgive him."

"But it sounds like you did," she concludes.

For the first time, you allow yourself to acknowledge it.

"He doesn't deserve it."

"Life is not about what we deserve."

"Erik said that to me once."

"Oh, that's one of his favorites. Life is random...nothing is under our control. _Embrace the chaos_."

"As much as I enjoy chaos, I'm not sure that life is random."

"That's kind of an ironic position for you to take. Don't you think?"

"I'm not talking about some kind of omniscient presence. I'm talking about there being a natural, predictable order in the universe...a set of rules by which everything is governed."

"There is, actually. It's called gravity."

"Right," you sigh.

"Would that satisfy you, knowing that everything happens for a reason?"

"Satisfy?" You echo. "Generally speaking, I usually manage to avoid being satisfied."

Jane eyes you, thoughtfully.

"Are you jealous of my relationship with Erik?"

Her inquiry is unexpected.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Why can't you just answer the question?"

"Why would I be jealous?"

"Before you came here...he used to talk about his work. After the war, it was you. Even when I go to see him at the hospital...when he does manage to hold a conversation, it's always about you."

You know not what to say. On one hand, you highly doubt anyone has ever been so consumed with you that they would see fit to praise you when you were not even present to hear it. On the other hand, you cannot imagine Erik speaking ill of you, even if he had good reason.

"Erik cares for you, Loki. I have no doubt."

You nod.

"And how have I repaid him for that?"

"I don't understand."

"I've abandoned him...left him to die, just as I did my father."

"Your father was already dying."

"You cannot possibly know that."

"I remember...when your mother died, Thor told me that his father's health was fading."

You recall the very moment of Odin's death, how he turned to stardust before your very eyes. And you and Thor stood, side by side, watching him disappear. Not long after, you heard the rumble of thunder...a sound that meant you'd once again aroused your brother's ire. It was clear that he blamed you for Odin's passing.

"It's not your fault that Erik is dying," Jane says.

"Perhaps not. But it is my fault that he's dying _there_. And when he does die, it will be my fault if he dies alone."

"I thought that's what he wanted."

"What if it isn't? What if this is all some kind of test and I'm just...failing miserably?"

"Who is it that you think is testing you?"

You are unsure how to answer. Whatever it is that you are feeling, you know there is no logic, nor reason behind it. You know not how to defend it.

"I tried to heal him, you know," you say instead.

"He mentioned it."

"Healing isn't magic, not technically. I mean, to you it would seem such. It's actually more of an art. It the art of manipulating of energy. Knitting together tissue or muscle is time consuming. It takes effort. But it isn't a complex task. The brain is different. Even the simplest of organisms possess within them a vast network of electrical pathways. The brain is a universe in and of itself."

"Humans believe that if there's such a thing as a soul, that's where it lives."

"But I didn't try to persuade him. I thought the best thing I could do for him was to respect his wishes. But what if it's not? What if I'm meant to do more?"

"I don't know, Loki. I'm sorry."

"The thing is," you profess, "I'm not ready for him to be gone."

You are so startled by your own confession, that you almost clamp your hand over your own mouth. Your arm hovers in the air for a moment. Ever so slowly, you lower it again.

But Jane does not appear particularly shocked.

"I understand."

"No…you don't."

"I don't?"

"It's not because I _care_. It's not because I'm...sentimental."

"Alright."

"It's because I think it's possible that he knows me better than anyone ever has. When I look at myself, all I see is...darkness. I see a monster. For some reason, when he looks at me, he doesn't see any of that. And I'm selfish. Because I don't want to give that up."

"How does that make you selfish?"

"Because...if I did manage to heal him, I think perhaps I would only be doing it for myself."

"What difference does it make?"

"What?"

"If you heal him...he still benefits. The fact that you also benefit is irrelevant."

"I think you're missing the point."

"You said you _tried_ to heal him...what do you mean? What stopped you?"

"I couldn't complete the task. I would grow weak and just…black out and wake up again, hours later."

"What about what you _did_ finish? Did it have any sort of effect at all?"

"He would be better for a few days. And then go right back to the way he was."

"What do you think caused you to black out?"

"I assume I expended too much energy."

"So, you don't actually know for sure."

"Well, it is the most logical explanation. I have never known of any healer to be rendered so…exhausted from their efforts. But I did not properly master these techniques. And I received only minimal formal instruction."

"What exactly does the process entail?"

"Normally healing is physical in nature. It would involve a transfer of energy. I could do it with my hands. But this is far more complex. In order to heal his mind...Erik and I would have to reach a state of shared consciousness. It might have been possible before. But now...I don't know that he's even capable of participating in such an ordeal."

"What all your vital signs were being monitored?

"Vital signs," you repeat.

"Heart rate, respiration, body temperature."

"Our healers were known to utilize such methods. But I have no such appropriate technology at my disposal."

" _We_ have such technology, Loki. It might not be Asgardian. But it's certainly...comparable. If your exhaustion is caused by dehydration or an electrolyte imbalance or you're not getting enough oxygen…we can fix all that. If your heart isn't beating fast enough, we can fix that too. Or at least, maintain it long enough to let you finish whatever it is that you're doing..."

She seems so excited. It almost pains you to deny her. But you must.

"No," you tell her, flatly.

"What do you mean _no_? If there's a chance..."

"It doesn't matter whether or not it's possible. That's not the only reason I stopped trying."

"Well, what other reasons are there?"

"I told him that that I wouldn't."

She appears perplexed.

"You're saying that he doesn't want to be healed."

"I'm saying that he asked me not to heal him."

"Maybe he just didn't want you to risk your own health. Maybe he was worried that it wouldn't work and you'd be disappointed."

"There's no use guessing."

"But if it _could_ actually work..."

"Even so...if by some chance I were successful, he's going to know that I lied to him."

"It's the right thing to do," she insists.

"Is it?"

"You don't think so?"

"It's..." you throw up your hands. You are tired of talking about it. You regret even breaching the topic in the first place. "Just forget it."

"You know," she says, "you _can_ talk to me."

You sigh. You do not want her to probe any further. Whatever this is, it must end here and now. You have disclosed far too much already.

"I _am_ talking to you. All I've done is talk. I've already told you everything."

"Well, not _everything_."

"Oh?"

"Here's a fun fact...did you know that Klonopin can cause vivid and disturbing dreams?"

You freeze. You feel your face grow flushed. The absolute last thing you want to do right now is defend your choice to take those pills. You do not fully understand it yourself. You seriously doubt you could make her understand. You are ashamed. Not because of what you did. But because you know that, if confronted about it, you will definitely lie.

"I know you took the pills out of the garbage last night," she informs you.

"Wonderful," you mumble.

"And what was that at the hospital, an earthquake?"

"Well, I'm very dangerous obviously," you snap. "All the more reason you should leave."

"If you need help..."

"I don't need help!" you shout. "From anyone. Least of all you."

"You are unbelievably stubborn!" she yells back, undaunted by your outburst.

"Yes, I am. And that's not going to change anytime soon."

She laughs to herself.

"I don't know what could possibly be funny," you say.

"You are _so_ much like him."

You need not ask to whom she is referring. You know that she means Thor.

"I am _nothing_ like him," you growl. "Do you understand? We are _nothing_ alike."

"Do you know why I ended our relationship?"

"I'm sure you had plenty of reasons."

"When he first came back to Earth, he was really happy to be here. But the novelty wore off pretty quickly."

"I think I know the feeling."

"Because he was in mourning..."

"...for our mother," you finish, cutting her off.

"For _you_ ," she amends.

"I don't want to hear this," you reply, blankly.

"He thought you were dead."

"Not the first time," you say, with a shrug.

"I tried to get him to talk about it, to talk about you. But every time he did, somehow we would end up arguing."

"I inspire antagonism in others? What a surprise."

"I mean, he never burned himself. But he might as well have."

"Clearly, he lacked the ingenuity."

"He was in pain..."

"You don't know what pain is," you huff.

You point at her, your finger almost touching her face. For a fraction of a second you are seething with rage. You nearly give in to it...nearly. But then, you feel your eyes burning with the threat of tears. And you withdraw your hand and turn your head.

Suddenly, you are there again. You are on the ship, surrounded by dead Asgardian refugees. The Hulk lies unconscious, nearby. Somewhere behind you, Heimdall is struggling, taking what would ultimately be his last breaths, calling upon dark magic to dispatch you to Earth. Thanos squeezes Thor's head in his giant fist. Strong Thor. Mighty Thor. How small he seemed, how helpless. How his face was contorted with agony, as his skull was slowly crushed.

Only now do you remember...all those things that you made yourself forget. Such as how you screamed. You covered your ears and screamed, screamed like a coward, screamed so you could drown it out, screamed so that you wouldn't have to hear what was happening. You remember...how, in that moment, you longed for your mother's soothing voice or your father's strong arms around you. You remember how you shut your eyes tight, so you wouldn't have to see it...how you wished it was you instead.

You realize that your eyes are now closed, your hands pressed firmly over your ears. Your teeth are clenched, hard. You feel Jane placing her hands over yours. She pries your fingers away from your head, gently.

"You're trembling..." you hear her say. She sounds far away.

"You don't know what pain is," you whisper, harshly.

"Okay," she replies. "Okay."


	15. Chapter 15

_February 27, 2024_

Your mind is still awash with visions of death. You are grateful when Jane finds a reason to vacate the kitchen. She goes upstairs to Erik's rooms, presumably to bathe and change her clothing. And she does not return for over an hour.

You eventually rise to retrieve your pizza from the toaster oven. But you discover that not only is your appetite gone, the thought of eating actually makes you nauseous. After tossing the pizza into the waste bin, you relocate to the living room.

For a while, you just sit on the sofa and reflect upon your conversation with Jane. While you regret divulging so much, you know that what's done is done. There's no sense it allowing it to go to waste.

"I'd really rather not go out," you confess, when she finally comes back downstairs.

You think, perhaps, you can win Jane over by playing on her emotions.

You raise your bandaged hand, doing your best to look at pathetic as possible.

"I'm not sure I feel up to it," you add.

Unfortunately, Jane is unmoved by your plight.

"Life is filled with things we would _rather_ not do," she comments.

Your mouth hangs open briefly, as you process her unsympathetic response.

"Thank you for that uplifting sentiment."

She turns to look at you, with her hands on her hips.

"Did you really think that was going to work?"

"No..." you mutter to yourself.

Jane heads for the back door. As you follow her through the kitchen, you scrape aggressively at the edge of the tape that is wrapped around your hand. You then rip the underlying layers gauze apart.

She watches you deposit them into the waste bin.

"Does this mean you're going to be a pain in the ass now?" she asks.

You are annoyed that you're being forced to go out in public. And therefore, you feel compelled to be as difficult as possible. Not that you're truly being forced. You know that some part of you must acknowledge the need for this excursion. Otherwise you wouldn't be going along with it at all. Throughout your life you have been many things. But you have never been slovenly or lazy, and certainly never uncleanly. And yet, you are confident that you would have been content to starve and wallow in your own filth, had Jane not come along and intervened.

"I don't see that I have any other choice," you retort.

"Suit yourself," she says, snatching up her purse. "I'm driving."

You are definitely in no hurry. And so, you take your time following Jane out to her car. Once you are both inside, she puts the key into the ignition and turns it to start the engine. Her stereo, which she neglected to disable the night before, is automatically activated. And your ears are immediately assaulted by a rapid, unpleasant refrain of synthetic noise.

"Do we have to listen to this racket?" you complain.

Jane uses the remote to open the gate, and pulls out of the driveway.

"Are we saying we don't like it?" she inquires, in a sing-song voice.

"Was that not obvious?"

Jane gestures to the panel of buttons on the dashboard.

"You are welcome to pick something else."

You turn the dial that controls the radio. As you scan the channels, you listen intently. You hope that you will hear something that you recognize. You know the chances are very slim. Earth musicians are somewhat prolific. They produce a large volume of new work on a nearly constant basis. As opposed to the musicians of Asgard, who went decades or centuries before composing anything new.

You are pleasantly surprised when you actually hear a recognizable melody. You relax against your seat. You know not the name of the song, nor the artist. But you recall Erik saying that the lyrics were inspired by an automobile.

Jane is visibly intrigued by your selection.

"Panama," she notes, with a hint of a smile. "Interesting choice."

"Uh huh."

"So...you actually like this?" she asks.

You don't _like_ it, not particularly. But you know that Erik does. Or at least he did. You can picture him singing along to it, his face crinkling up the way it does when he's having a good time, his voice cracking just a bit when he tries to hit the higher notes. And there's something about that mental image you find comforting, if even only on an abstract level. Moreover, it's undoubtedly preferable to whatever Jane was planning to subject you to.

You issue a silent nod, hoping she will be discouraged from questioning you further.

She continues to press you, however.

"We're a big Van Halen fan, are we?"

You have no idea why she's speaking to you as though you are a child. You feel like you're being accused of something. Or perhaps even mocked.

"Yes," you insist. You cannot resist the urge to add, "perhaps you should shut up, so that I can actually enjoy it."

She manages to be quiet for the remainder of the song. Yet, as soon as it is over, she begins talking again.

"There are apps that create playlists for you," she offers, "based on what you like."

The concept is lovely in theory. Except that you don't actually know what you _like_. And would rather not waste energy wading through hundreds of thousands of audio samples in the off chance that you might happen upon something agreeable.

You reach for the knob again, scrolling through the channels. It only takes you about thirty seconds to find a song that you are certain you heard at least once before. You recognize the lyrics of the chorus. _You can go your own way_ , a man sings. _You can call it another lonely day._

"This is fine," you say, blankly.

Much of Earth's lyrical music contains euphemisms with which you are unfamiliar. This song is no exception. It contains two such phrases: _packing up_ and _shacking up_. You assume that _packing up_ can be taken literally. Yet, somehow you doubt that _shacking up_ has anything to do with shacks.

" _Shacking up_ ," you mumble, under your breath.

"Excuse me?"

You genuinely did not realize that you were speaking aloud. But there's no reason Jane needs to know that.

"What does it mean?" you ask.

"Oh," she begins, scrunching up her mouth a bit, as she ponders your inquiry. "It's a figure of speech."

"I gathered that. For what?"

"It's when two people engage in a sexual relationship with...no emotional involvement."

That is hardly the explanation you were anticipating. Certainly there were those on Asgard who engaged in such behavior. But it wasn't common. The majority of people were content to adhere to traditional Asgardian norms of courtship and marriage.

"That's rather frivolous," you note.

You are expecting to hear another song. Instead there is an advertisement for some kind of beverage. You scroll through the channels, absently. You manage to go through every one of them twice, without finding anything suitable. Since you are almost at your destination, you press the button to shut off the radio.

Jane peers at you, cautiously.

"You know," she says, "I already have a playlist saved for Erik."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Is that so?"

"I only mention it because you two apparently have...similar taste. I could share it with you, if you want."

"Maybe later," you mumble.

The suggestion has merit, of course. But since you are fairly committed to being irritated, you refuse to be pacified with something so negligible.

The grocery store parking lot is full of cars. Jane drives up and down the rows of vehicles for several minutes before she locates an empty space. While you are undeniably apprehensive, you don't begin to experience any genuine anxiety until you actually walk through the front entrance of the establishment.

The interior of the shop is brightly lit, almost painfully so, and it is crowded with people. The second you enter the building, you want to leave.

Jane walks away from you almost immediately. She retrieves a wheeled cart. She pushes it towards an area with a large sign that reads: _fresh produce_. It seems the least populated portion of the store, at the moment. Still, you trail her closely. You have no desire to become separated in this place.

On Asgard you had a wide variety of fruit: apples, pears, grapes, plums, figs, cherries, assorted types of berries. But they differed somewhat in taste and appearance from those available here on Earth. After some limited experimentation, you isolated a handful of items that you found agreeable. Gala apples, for instance, are the most similar in texture and flavor to those you consumed as a child. They have just the right combination of tart and sweetness. And you discovered that Earth carrots, if consumed raw, are fairly indistinguishable from their Asgardian counterparts.

You take two bags from a dispenser on the wall, fill one with apples and the other with carrots and sets both into the cart. You watch Jane pluck items from the shelves…a few onions, some parsley, a bag of potatoes.

The next aisle contains soups and sauces that are stored in metal cans. But unlike the previous section, it is filled with people. Some of the patrons are pushing carts that hold not only merchandise, but also small children. You are overwhelmed by the threat of so many eyes upon you, scrutinizing your every move. Though you have not done so in quite some time, you have an involuntary urge to render yourself invisible.

As you move about the aisle, the other patrons continue on about their business, blissfully oblivious to your presence. Jane's reaction is unique.

"Do you want soup?" she asks, upon your approach.

It is difficult to tell whether she is looking _at_ you, or _through_ you.

You stare back at her, not moving or speaking.

You refuse to believe she can actually see you. You wave your hand in front of her face, curiously.

She sighs.

"I know you're there, Loki."

"You're bluffing," you hiss.

Thankfully, no one in the aisle notices your disembodied voice.

"Am I?" she counters.

She plucks a can of soup from the shelf and offers it to you.

"How about this one?"

You glance at the label. _Beef Barley_. You know what beef is and you know what barley is. You have no objections to either. Regardless, you swat at the can, meaning to topple it to the floor. Surprisingly, Jane withdraws her hand just in time to prevent you from doing so.

"You _are_ a witch," you declare.

Though your illusion is now rendered pointless, you still wait until the aisle is a little clearer before going to the trouble to reappear. You elicit mostly eye rolls from the other patrons, though one small child smiles and claps. An elderly woman with a cane actually gives you a disapproving glare.

It's a far cry from the terror you inspired when you arrived on Earth before. Of course, you were wielding a powerful weapon and demanding that everyone kneel before you. Either way, this realm has changed a lot since the war. The vast majority of Midgardians have already seen at least one person dematerialize right before their very eyes. Most developed countries have undergone some flavor of social or political revolution. They are weary of excitement. Not much fazes them, at this point.

"I used to buy this for Thor," Jane informs you.

She holds the can up again. You study the illustration on the front of it. It never occurred to you to ask Jane, or even Erik, what sort of foods Thor ate while he was staying on Earth. Probably because you tend to avoid discussing Thor altogether. You are far more selective than your brother ever was, regarding the consumption of food. But you believe that if he found this particular soup palatable, it's possible that you will as well.

You nod.

"It's fine."

Jane grabs a few more cans of the beef barley soup, and some others that contain similar ingredients, and places them in the cart.

As much as you hate being here, you must admit that it is nice to have someone navigate this process for you. Jane is quite different than Erik. She is far more confrontational, for one thing, and much less tolerant. While you prefer Erik's easy-going demeanor, you know that he was not terribly organized when it came to things like this.

Jane forges on ahead of you, pushing the cart down row after row. There seems no end to the array of food products. The last few aisles contain toiletries.

"Do you need mouthwash?" she asks.

You survey the items on the nearest shelf. Above them is a large sign that reads: _Oral Hygiene_. There is a myriad of plastic bottles, all filled with liquids in various colors.

You toss your hand, dismissively.

"I don't use mouthwash."

That isn't entirely true. Erik supplied you with mouthwash when you first arrived at his home, along with a number of other items that are considered standard toiletries for Midgardians. You used it, not out of necessity but because you were partial to the minty flavor. When your supply ran out, however, you saw no reason to acquire more.

"Aren't you worried about bad breath?" she pries.

"Bad breath in humans is caused by bacteria," you point out.

"So?"

"So...I don't have any bacteria in my mouth."

"That's not possible," she asserts. "Bacteria is on everything."

"That might be true for the creatures of this realm. But it would not survive very long on me."

"Oh yeah? How do you manage that?"

"When my immune system detects the presence of bacteria, it causes my cells to vibrate at a frequency that bacteria finds…undesirable."

"Humans rely on a similar process," she shares. "It's why we get fevers when we're sick."

"Fever," you repeat. You are vaguely familiar with the term.

You notice her eyes light up, the same way Erik's always did whenever the topic of conversation became remotely scientific in nature.

"If our immune systems detect bacteria, in some cases, it will increase our core body temperature until it's too hot for the bacteria to survive."

"That sounds positively miserable."

"It can be," she agrees.

"I guess I'll never know," you tell her, smugly.

You know not how humans survived so long, considering how easily they succumb to illness.

Jane continues scanning the items on the shelves.

"Do you brush your teeth?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

She regards you, oddly.

"So," she reasons, "you brush your teeth, but you don't use mouthwash."

"Well, pardon me if I don't enjoy having particles of food in my mouth."

"What kind of toothpaste do you use?"

You cannot remember the precise flavor of the toothpaste you have at home. Whatever it is, Erik picked it out for you. _Wintergreen? Wintermint? Winterfresh?_ It's definitely winter-something, although you know not what winter has to do with mint, or teeth for that matter.

You survey the selection of toothpaste. You see some red boxes that look similar to the ones Erik purchased in the past. You grab two of them from the shelf, and toss them into the cart.

By the time you make your way up and down every aisle the cart is practically overflowing. You never purchased so many items at one time, while shopping via the computer. You honestly did not even realize that you used so many things.

You end up standing in line behind 3 other parties of people. You wait for nearly 30 minutes, during which you skillfully avoid making eye contact with any other patrons by pretending to be occupied with your phone.

When it is your turn, you help Jane to load everything onto the conveyor belt. Mostly because you know it will only expedite your departure. You are not at all surprised to learn that the total cost of your items exceeds three hundred dollars.

You withdraw your wallet from your pocket. It's a thin, leather thing that Erik gave you to carry your citizenship papers and driver's license. Inside it there is a bit of cash, as well as your bank card. He advised you to keep it on your person anytime you left the house.

You have only ever used the card itself to purchase fuel for Erik's car. And so, you know not what to expect. The cashier prompts you to insert the card into a small machine, and to remove it shortly after. You think, perhaps, she will request some form of identification or even question your possession of the card. But she does neither. She just smiles and hands you a long strip of paper.

You stand for a moment, unsure what you are supposed to do with it.

Suddenly, Jane snatches the paper out of your hand.

"Thank you," she tells the woman, pushing the cart towards the exit.

As soon as you are outside, you relax a bit. You are relieved that your errand is coming to a close.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Jane confides, as you make your way towards the car together.

"Hmm...I've said a lot of things. You're going to have to be more specific."

"I meant about healing Erik."

You sigh. You knew it was possible that she might breach the topic again. You were simply hoping that she wouldn't.

"This again? I already told you...it's not happening."

"I think we should ask Dr. Chen for help," she chirps, completely undaunted by your denial.

You stop walking.

"Are you daft?" you practically gasp. "Did you not hear me just now?"

She stops walking as well.

"I heard you."

"That man has no interest whatsoever in discharging Erik from his care. What motivation could he possibly have to facilitate such a lofty endeavor?"

"I'm confident that he'll change his mind, once we explain what we're planning to do."

"Why would we tell him anything at all? What makes you think he would even believe us?"

Her tone changes, and it is evident that she is choosing her words very carefully.

"When he used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. his security clearance was at least as high as mine. He's probably seen much stranger things."

You are flabbergasted and you make no effort to conceal it.

"Wait...what?"

"I recognized his face when we first met a few months ago. I figured that's why Erik chose him as a physician."

"And you didn't see fit to mention this before now?" you demand.

Jane begins moving again, pushing the cart towards her vehicle.

"I assumed you already knew," she replies, over her shoulder.

She opens the trunk of the car and begins transferring items into it.

You follow after her.

"No, I didn't know. How would I know?"

"I thought Erik might have said something."

"Well, he didn't," you snap.

After you silently help Jane to load the remaining items into the car, you climb into the front passenger seat. Once again, your mind is reeling. But not with images of death. The realization that Erik hid something from you stabs you somewhere deep inside. You wonder if it was intentional, or if he simply forgot. You wonder why you even care.

When she reaches for the knob that controls the stereo, you grab her arm.

"I don't want to listen to any music right now."

Jane studies you, curiously. While you detect a trace of fear in her eyes, it fades quickly.

"You could have just said that."

Several seconds pass and your fingers are still wrapped around her wrist. Not tightly, but enough to restrict her movement.

Her demeanor softens.

"I'm going to need my hand to drive," she reminds you, gently.

She waits for you to let go, and then pulls out of the parking lot and into the street.


	16. Chapter 16

_February 27, 2024_

Thankfully, the drive back home is brief. Whatever enjoyment you managed to derive from Jane's presence has definitely dwindled. You are now eager to retreat to your room for some much needed solitude.

When you arrive at the house, you and Jane carry the groceries inside. You place the sacks that contain food on the kitchen counter. The sacks that contain non-food items, she takes upstairs. You assume that she will deposit them there and come right back down. She does not return immediately, however. Therefore, you trek upstairs to investigate.

You head not to Erik's room, but directly to your own. In light of Jane's recent streak of invasive behavior, you suspect that is where she will be found. Yet, when you reach the doorway of your chambers, there is still some part of you that is surprised to see her standing there. For she did not merely enter, she journeyed all the way through to the adjoining washroom.

She is holding the bar of soap from your shaving kit and examining it closely, as one might a curious artifact.

You rush towards her and snatch the object out of her hand.

"Is there no end to your insolence?"

"Did you make this?" she asks, casually.

You cannot fathom why she cares about something so mundane, or why she feels so comfortable intruding upon you this way.

"Well, I certainly didn't _buy_ it."

Jane lifts the soap again. She holds it in front of her face and inhales, deeply.

"I know this smell."

You stifle a frustrated growl before it can escape your lips.

"Is that right?"

"I can't quite place it."

She is visibly impressed by your handiwork. And like it or not, your ego is mildly aroused. Still, you would prefer that she not handle your things. You take the soap out of her hand once more...this time, a bit more gently.

"It's cedar," you inform her. Inwardly, you are kicking yourself for placating her nosiness.

"Cedar," she replies. She smiles, showing all of her teeth. "My father used to put cedar chips in with our sweaters and blankets."

"Charming."

The sack of items you purchased is sitting nearby, on the floor. Jane reaches into it and withdraws the 2 boxes of toothpaste. Then she opens the mirrored cabinet that is next to the door. She places the boxes on the shelf inside. But she doesn't shut the cabinet right away, nor does she remove anything else from the sack. Instead, she just stares.

" _Now_ , what are you doing?" you demand, even though it is obvious. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

She shrugs.

"I'm just looking. Can't I look?"

"No, you can't."

You shut the cabinet. She opens it right up again and surveys the items inside. There are 3 shelves, on which you are storing vials of assorted size, shape and color.

"What are these?" she asks.

You sigh.

"Which ones?"

She gestures to the smaller, less ornate bottles on the bottom shelf.

"They're tinctures."

"Tinctures," she repeats, sounding utterly fascinated. "Did you make these too?"

You grit your teeth.

"What do you think?"

There are easily a dozen of the tiny, glass vials. Her hand hovers in the air a moment. Then she reaches for the plainest of them. She removes the lid and uses her hand to waft the odor towards her nose. You don't bother trying to stop her.

"This isn't cedar."

"Why are you doing this?" you ask. "Are you deriving some sort of entertainment from your constant invasion of my personal space?"

Jane is undeterred. She continues to sniff at the vial, cautiously.

"It's lavender," she declares.

The shop where you purchased your meats also carries a number of herbs, botanical oils and plant extracts, which you used to create these tinctures, as well as the beef tallow that you used to make the soap. It is also where you obtained the ingredients for the medicinal tea you gave Erik for his arthritis.

Though the various species of lavender grown on Earth differ slightly from those found on Asgard, their fragrance is similar enough. Lavender tinctures are typically used to calm nerves or to remedy sleeplessness. Actually, all tinctures bear some sort of utilitarian purpose. But for you, most of these have only sentimental value. Especially the lavender. For when you take in its aroma, you can recall quite clearly the image of Asgard's rolling hills and lush landscapes, and all the colors and sounds that you once considered synonymous with the concept of home.

"Correct," you affirm, staring at the floor.

"You know," she remarks, "I read somewhere that smell is more closely linked to memory than any of our senses."

"Delightful," you reply, abruptly. "Can you put it back, please?"

She places the bottle back in the cabinet and closes the mirrored door.

"I feel like I don't even know you."

"Assuming that's true, do you really think the answers you seek will be found among my toiletries?"

"You can learn a lot about someone from what they've got in their bathroom," she teases. "Who knew you made your own soap?"

She reaches into the sack on the floor and removes the rest of the items. You stand and watch her put them on the shelf underneath the sink.

"Look," you explain, diplomatically. "I've been alone for a while, now. And you're lovely and all of that. I'm just not used to someone being right here, in my private chambers."

She turns and studies you, intently.

"What about Erik?"

"Erik only came in here a handful of times, and he certainly never went through my things."

"You never shared a bathroom with anyone?"

"I shared rooms with my brother, if you must know. That was…a _very_ long time ago."

"And you've been hiding in this house for the past six years," she concludes. "It's no wonder you've become so intolerant to the presence of others."

"I see you've been talking to Rogers," you return, defensively. It wasn't long ago that he made a similar assessment.

"I haven't been, actually. Why...does he think you're hiding, too?"

"No..."

Your discomfort is mounting. Jane is either oblivious to your distress, or she doesn't care. And you are beginning to fear that you will be unable to stop yourself from physically ejecting her from the room.

Fortunately, your thoughts are interrupted when you feel something vibrating against your hip.

"Your phone," she announces, as though you were somehow unaware.

You reach into your pocket and retrieve the offending device. You hold it up and examine the screen.

"It's the hospital."

You know not why they are calling. And thus, you experience some minimal degree of alarm. Jane, on the other hand, appears suspiciously unconcerned.

"Oh," she responds, nonchalantly.

She is suddenly in a hurry to leave. She scoops up the empty sack from the floor and proceeds to vacate the room in rather short order. If she were anyone else, you might think she was motivated by a desire to give you privacy. The fact that she was just rifling through your personal belongings suggests otherwise. The only plausible explanation for her behavior is that she already knows why the hospital is calling.

You push the green button to answer the call and lift the phone to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Odinson...it's Dr. Chen."

His tone of voice is informal. But in the past, any time the hospital contacted you, the communication was always initiated by a nurse or an administrator of some sort. You cannot recall Dr. Chen ever having contacted you personally. If he is going to the trouble to correspond with you directly there must be a reason, and you doubt that it is good.

"Has something happened to Erik?"

"Oh...no, nothing like that."

You stifle a sigh of relief.

"Then what is it that I can do for you?"

"Given our conversation last night, I thought it might be appropriate to...touch base."

" _Touch base_ ," you echo. You know not the context of the euphemism.

"Uh...it just means to make contact. It's a baseball metaphor."

You know that baseball is a game of some sort. You recall Steve Rogers mentioning it on more than one occasion. You know little else about it.

"Well, consider the base _touched,"_ you counter, dryly.

"Right...I am sorry to bother you. I was just hoping that we could discuss your father's options a bit further."

You don't want to have this conversation. And so, your aim is to shut it down as soon as possible.

"He doesn't have any options."

"I'm sorry?"

"You made it painfully clear that you feel it's in his best interest to remain in your care. After some contemplation I have decided not to interfere with that. I will be deferring to your expertise, henceforth."

"Huh," he says, utterly confused. "It's just...that was not the impression I got when I spoke to Dr. Foster this morning."

You grip the side of the sink with your free hand. The marble surface is cold against your skin. At some point in the last few hours, Jane apparently went behind your back and solicited the advice of Erik's physician. Moreover, she had the nerve to suggest that you petition the man for his assistance, as though she had not already done so herself. Ordinarily you would admire such deviousness. In this case, you do not.

"You spoke with Dr. Foster."

"She seemed to think you might have some ideas about an…alternative treatment."

"I assure you, she was quite mistaken."

"That is a shame."

"Why is that?"

"It sounded...intriguing."

"So," you begin. You are compelled to point out the other man's duplicity. "You and Dr. Foster are formerly acquainted."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Technically, we had the same employer. Sometimes we were in the same building. But we weren't exactly friends."

"And yet, you mistook her for my wife."

He chuckles, softly.

"Yeah..."

He goes silent for about five seconds.

"This is the part where you explain yourself," you prompt.

"I was attempting to provoke an…impassioned response."

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Curiosity, I guess."

"Curiosity," you repeat.

If he made a conscious attempt to incur your wrath, purely to observe your reaction, it's safe to assume that he knows exactly who you are. And if he was employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. at some point, it's possible that he's always known.

"You know how some kids wonder what would happen if they jumped out of a moving car or off the roof of their house? Ninety-nine percent of them never find out. Self-preservation prevents them from doing so. Let's just say I was in the one percent."

"You are either very dangerous or very stupid."

"I never got along with kids my age. I couldn't relate to them. I spent my entire childhood reading...got into Stanford when I was fifteen. I finished medical school in three years. S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me before I even completed my residency."

"To do what?"

It couldn't have been for his physical prowess. At full height, the man comes only to the center of your chest. And he doesn't have much to speak of in the way of muscle mass.

"To help them harvest and weaponize naturally occurring neurotoxins."

"Dangerous it is."

"Not these days, thankfully. _Do no harm_ and all that."

"So, what is this," you ask, "penance?"

"I don't know. I was grateful to survive the snap. I guess I'm trying to find some meaning in it, same as everyone else."

While you can understand the need to find meaning, you are beginning to suspect that some things just happen. Maybe some things truly are random, and not necessarily part of a greater plan.

"Well," you tell him, "if you're longing for a way to redeem yourself, this is not it."

"You tried this before, right?"

"Tried what?"

"You're uh... _alternative_ treatment."

"What makes you say that?"

"A few times, right after your father was diagnosed, he showed a few sharp spikes of improvement. Not completely unprecedented, mind you. I just thought it was odd."

You inhale and exhale slowly, trying to stifle your own irritation. If he knows who you are, then he is well aware of the true nature of your relationship with Erik. You wonder why he's bothering to maintain pretense. To do so, at this point, practically borders on mockery.

"You know that he's not _really_ my father, right?"

There's another long pause.

"I have plenty of paperwork that says he is."

That is hardly the response you were expecting.

"Right."

"Let's say you did...whatever it was you did or didn't try to do before. Would it exacerbate his condition?"

You ponder it, momentarily.

"I don't see how it could."

"So," he summarizes, "worst case scenario...nothing changes."

"If nothing changes, then it's a complete waste of time."

"What kind of success rate have you seen with a procedure like this?"

"There is no _procedure like this_. Because...it's never been done."

"It's evident that you have reservations."

"That's correct. I do."

"Perhaps if we could address them specifically..."

"There's nothing to address. I have already stated my position on the matter..."

"Actually, you haven't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Based upon what I heard..."

"What you heard," you scoff, "is but a scratch upon the surface from someone who scarcely comprehends it herself..."

"Which is precisely why I think we should take the time to discuss it further."

"Now, listen to me, you irksome, little man..."

He chuckles at your barb. Once again, not the response you were expecting.

You don't want to hear any more. And you don't want to argue. So, you press the button to disconnect the call and slide the phone back into your pocket.

You know that you should probably take a few minutes to compose yourself before confronting Jane. But, naturally, you don't. As annoyed as you are, there's a small part of you that is pleased to have reason to be angry. The fury that you were longing for earlier is finally here. Now you need only embrace it and see where it takes you.

You practically stomp down the stairs. You enter the kitchen but find it empty. You gaze out of the window and see that Jane is outside, transferring the laundry from the machine in the garage into a large basket. When she enters the house again, she doesn't acknowledge your presence. She moves right past you to the living room and dumps the contents of the basket onto the couch.

You follow after her.

"You are a meddlesome imp," you accuse, sharply.

She pretends to be thoroughly consumed with the task of sorting the items in the basket. When she fails to respond to your declaration, you approach her. You saunter, menacingly, not unlike a predator stalking its prey. You want her to be afraid of you, if even just for a moment.

"What exactly are you playing at?"

She hardly seems afraid, though. She begins separating the laundry into piles of like items.

"Newton's first law of motion. An object at rest stays at rest, unless acted upon by an unbalanced force."

"Well, you certainly have proven yourself _unbalanced_."

"I simply explained your idea to Dr. Chen..."

"You couldn't begin to understand my _idea_ ," you hiss, "much less explain it to anyone else."

"He seemed to think it was worth exploring further."

"Has it escaped your attention that he's a lunatic?"

"The Catholic church thought Galileo was a lunatic." she points out.

"Because he believed your planet revolved around its sun."

She seems surprised that you are so well versed in the history of her realm.

"And he recanted when they tortured him," you add.

"How do you know that?"

"Because unlike yourself, I was actually alive when that event took place."

She raises her eyebrow.

"What are you going to do, torture Dr. Chen?"

You toss your hand.

"Now, that would be a waste of my talents."

"I couldn't agree more."

You chuckle at her paltry attempt at manipulation.

"Oh, I'm sure."

"I made a list of things you might need."

"How could you possibly know what I might need?"

She plucks a garment from the pile, a blue t-shirt Erik gifted you with the words VOTE SCIENCE on the front. You rip it out of her hands.

"Stop touching my things!" you bellow.

You toss the t-shirt out of her reach and then grab the empty basket and toss it as well.

She is unimpressed by your theatrics, and quickly grows serious.

"You're angry."

"Yes," you admit. "I am."

"Anger is just a mask for fear. What is it that you're so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"You're trying to avoid pain," she surmises.

"Who isn't?"

"Pain is inevitable."

"Oh," you reply, loudly. "How generous you are to share your wisdom."

"Are you afraid that it won't work?"

You swallow, thickly.

"You're not?"

"No, I'm not."

"Such confidence!" you shout.

You are exasperated. You hope that she will raise her voice as well, giving you cause to escalate the situation further. You are disappointed when she does not.

"It's not confidence," she answers with a sigh. "And it's not witchcraft. It's just...a feeling."

You remember your exchange upstairs, how she effortlessly picked out the vial that was most significant to you, almost as though she was drawn to it. Then there was your peculiar interaction involving the can of soup.

"Like today, in the shop?" you ask. "How did you know I was standing there, hmm? Was that _just a feeling_?"

"I could see you."

You first learned to render yourself invisible when you were but a boy. And under your mother's tutelage, you spent centuries perfecting your technique. There were times that not even Heimdall could detect your presence...but they were few and far between. It does not seem possible that Jane could see that which even Heimdall could not.

"No…I don't believe you."

"I mean, I couldn't _see_ you," she amends. "I could see the outline of you. The glimmer around the edges...like a distortion in space."

You recall that Jane is one of few mortals to ever have intimate contact with an Infinity Stone. You still know not how she survived it. It is plausible that it might have left something behind...a trace of its magic, perhaps.

"The Aether."

She nods.

"Since then, I can see a lot of things."

"What sort of things?"

"Well, some people have a glow around them. Especially when they're particularly happy or sad."

"A glow?"

"Like...a halo."

You are curious whether you have an _halo_. But the notion that someone could gaze upon you and know what you are feeling makes you incredibly uneasy.

But this seems like a fine opportunity to divert the attention from yourself. And so, you do just that.

"What was it like?" you ask.

"What was _what_ like?"

"The Aether."

She smiles, bashfully.

"I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before."

"Well, I'm asking."

She sits back against the couch cushion and folds her hands in her lap.

"It was sort of like being awake and being asleep at the same time. I knew what was happening...but I wasn't in control of my body."

"Ah," you respond, politely.

"Isn't that what it was like for you?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You _know_ what I mean," she insists. "Don't you?"

You blink at her in confusion. It takes you a moment to realize that she is referring to your subjugation at the hands of Thanos, when you were under the influence of the Mind Stone.

"Erik told you."

"No."

"Rogers, then," you guess. You know not how else she could have learned of it.

Her expression softens.

"I thought you knew."

Now, she actually does seem afraid. Which makes you wonder what else she could possibly be hiding.

"Knew what?"

"There was an article in TIME Magazine about it."

"An article?" you pry, warily.

You know perfectly well what an article is. When you first came to stay here, you accessed a number of _articles_ about Erik on the internet. They were almost exclusively unflattering, which now seems odd considering how well respected Erik was in his particular field. It is as though the goal of Midgardian journalists is to consistently paint their subjects in the poorest possible light.

"Someone got a hold of the transcript of your interview and published an article about it. They even won some kind of award."

You try desperately to remain nonchalant.

"What did the article say, exactly?"

"Well…there were some excerpts from your interview, of course. The author said that you'd been given an extensive psychiatric evaluation, and that you'd been indicted of your war crimes due to temporarily diminished mental capacity."

"Diminished mental capacity?"

You glare at her in disbelief. Granted, the memories of your interrogation are limited. But you certainly do not recall being evaluated with any particular goal in mind. And while you are willing to acknowledge that you were not operating of your own volition, it troubles you to learn that your freedom ultimately hinged on the notion that you had been too stupid to know any better.

Damn this culture and their need to exploit every scrap of people's lives.

"It's just a legal term," she clarifies. "It means that you weren't necessarily in control of your actions, that they weren't premeditated."

They weren't premeditated. That part is true, at least.

"Well," you quip, "if you read it TIME Magazine, it _must_ be true."

"Is it?" she inquires, gently.

That's one of the things you truly do not understand about this planet. Its inhabitants seem to think they are entitled to know everyone else's business. On Asgard, people had the good sense to gossip behind closed doors.

She regards you, sympathetically.

"I guess...ever since I read that article, I sort of wanted to talk to you about it."

"You've certainly had sufficient opportunity."

"Have I? Every time I came here to see Erik, you were always hiding in the garage."

"I was not _hiding_..."

"And the few times I _did_ try to talk to you, you always ended up saying something obnoxious."

"And then you remembered that I was a _pain in the ass_?"

She smiles.

"Something like that."

You retrieve the basket that you threw earlier. You collect the individual pieces of laundry and set them back into the basket. Then, you seat yourself on the couch.

"After the snap I was taken into custody and left in a cell for several days. Rogers came for me, and I was removed from my cell and interviewed by some government agents. I was told that if I made an official statement, I'd be spared imprisonment and granted asylum. Given the circumstances, it was a reasonable arrangement. I intended to disclose just enough to satisfy their curiosity and ensure my release."

"I take it that's not how it went."

"They drugged me...and instead I told them everything."

"There was nothing in the article that you should be ashamed of," she tells you, reassuringly.

But you do not feel reassured at all.

"How would you know what I should be ashamed of?"

She is surprised by your reaction.

"Are you angry that I know? Loki, _everyone_ knows."

"That's sort of my point."

"There's nothing you can do about it now."

"I don't want to be pitied."

You remember the people in the shop. You wonder how many of them read that _article_. You once had the ability to strike terror into the hearts of your enemies. Now, you find yourself wondering how many people think of you as some kind of helpless, miserable creature.

"Would you rather be feared?"

You think of Thor, who was neither. Thor was adored, revered even. Certain people feared him, yes, but the public at large regarded him a hero. Even when he died, he was a hero. You were feared for a brief time. It wasn't altogether unpleasant. Nor was it satisfying. The notion that people's affinity for you might be based solely on sympathy makes you feel positively ill.

"If that had happened to you, would you want people to know about it?"

"I don't know," she replies. "I suppose not."

She retrieves a folded piece of paper from her back pocket, which she hands over to you.

You unfold the paper and read the words that are on it. Many of the terms are unfamiliar to you. But the list of items is surprisingly well organized. And it does imply a fundamental understanding of what an extensive healing might entail.

"I don't even know what most of this stuff is," you confess.

"Dr. Chen does."

You roll your eyes.

"Of _course_ , he does. Why don't the two of you do this together and leave me out of it?"

"You know this can't work without you."

You shake your head. You are torn between giving in and fearing that you are only doing so because you were somehow manipulated. Of course, you want to heal Erik. It's just not as simple as Jane is making it out to be.

"When exactly did you find time to do all of this?"

"When I was upstairs, this morning."

"I thought you were bathing."

"For an hour and a half?"

"Well...some people really like to be clean."

You both laugh. Your body relaxes as you feel your anger draining away.

She edges a bit closer to you, reaches for your hand and gives it a squeeze.

"Please tell me you'll at least think about it."

"Thinking about it is not the problem."

"Then, what _is_ the problem."

"You're a physicist. So, you know that energy can't just be created. It can only be transformed or transferred."

"Okay..."

"Healing requires a great deal of energy. And that energy has to come from somewhere. In this case it has to come from me."

"But that's why we need Dr. Chen's help. If we find a way to monitor your vital signs, we can prevent you from depleting your energy..."

"Listen to me," you interject. "Erik doesn't _just_ have damaged neurons that need to be repaired. A significant portion of them have gone dark. Whatever is missing will have to be...built from scratch. Even if I do manage to recreate what's been lost, there's a very real possibility that he won't be the exact same person that he was before."

"It's better than doing nothing, isn't it?"

 _Better than doing nothing._ Was that not the reason Steve Rogers cited for expediting your release? And was that not the reason you cited as well, when Steve asked what had motivated you to care for Erik as he succumbed to his illness?

"What do you need me to do?"

You are overwhelmed. You know not how to begin...and you feel so very ill equipped.

"I honestly don't know. There's no one left to ask. There's just me."

She beams at you. And though you are certain that her confidence in you is misplaced, it is refreshing, nonetheless.

"Oh, I think you'll be more than enough."


	17. Chapter 17

_February 28, 2024_

You and Jane enter the restaurant together, _Paul's Diner_. You have no idea who _Paul_ is, or if he is even a real person. The quaint establishment is located only a short distance from the house. You passed it every time you went to visit Erik, though you never found reason to venture inside until now. You weren't exactly thrilled about meeting Dr. Chen so publicly, of course. But he insisted that you do so outside of the hospital and you certainly weren't going to invite him to your home.

You spot him immediately, seated alone in the booth that is furthest from the entrance. He is in the process of drinking what you assume is at least his second cup of coffee. When you sit down across from him, you notice that he is especially jittery.

Before you can even speak, a tired looking woman approaches the table. Her name tag reads: _Judith_. The apron she is wearing is a dreadful shade of mustard yellow. She pulls a pen and small tablet of paper from her pocket and asks whether you or Jane want to order anything. You tell her that you do not. Jane requests a glass of orange juice and some toasted bread. Judith scribbles the order on her tablet and walks away.

"This is so exciting," Dr. Chen says, rocking back and forth. "I'm honored that you'd allow me to be a part of it."

You are not nearly as enthusiastic. You scan the restaurant for anyone who might inadvertently eavesdrop on your conversation. It is fairly early in day, and the place is basically empty. Judith is standing by the entrance to the kitchen, staring down at her cell phone. There is only one other patron present, an elderly gentleman sitting by himself, reading a newspaper. He is wearing a device on his ear that indicates he suffers from some sort of hearing impairment. He seems harmless enough, though one can never be too careful.

"Please, try to contain yourself."

Judith returns quickly with Jane's juice and toasted bread. You and Dr. Chen stare at one another as she deposits the items on the table.

"I feel compelled to say," he declares, after Judith departs, "that something of this nature would ordinarily be done in a clinical setting."

"We're not doing it at the hospital," you respond, abruptly. "That is non-negotiable."

"Yeah, I figured you would say that."

"And yet, you still brought it up."

"I was hoping you might consider allowing me to...supervise."

"Supervise," you repeat. You don't much like the sound of that. "In what capacity?"

"In a purely medical capacity. I'd just be there to monitor Erik. And you, of course."

When Jane suggested involving Dr. Chen, your assumption was that he would merely be providing you with necessary equipment. You hadn't envisioned him being physically present while the healing was taking place.

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand.

"I believe that Dr. Foster's supervision will be sufficient."

"You do realize that Dr. Foster is not a medical doctor."

The gall of this little man.

"I am not an imbecile..." you growl. "I am well aware of the nature of Dr. Foster's work."

"I just meant, this is more my area of expertise. And even if he were to be discharged from the hospital, Erik is still my patient."

"I really would feel better if he were there," Jane interjects.

You lean back in your seat, and fold your hands in your lap.

"I see."

"Look," Dr. Chen offers, "You're in charge. What you say goes. As long as you and Erik remain stable, I won't interfere. But if that should change, I will have an ethical and a legal obligation to intervene."

You would rather this man not set foot in your home, let alone be present while you are unconscious.

You glance at Jane. You watch her slowly tear away pieces of the toasted bread and pop them in her mouth, just as she did the pizza she consumed at your house the other night. She raises her eyebrows at you, hopefully.

You sigh.

"If he should become particularly annoying, you have my permission to kill him."

She nods and tears off another piece of bread.

"Got it."

You turn to Dr. Chen.

"She's a witch, you know."

He chuckles, assuming you are making a joke.

"Is that right?"

"She once had the power of an Infinity Stone running through her veins."

He looks at her.

"He's not serious."

"Still feeling honored?" you ask, with a smirk.

"We need to talk about the list," Jane says.

She withdraws the paper from her pocket, unfolds it and lays it on the table between the three of you.

Dr. Chen picks up the piece of paper and scans the list of items, carefully.

"Can I write on this?"

"Be my guest," she replies.

He removes a pen from his pocket and reads over the list of items again. He crosses out a few things and makes some corrections. Then he lays it back down in the center of the table.

"The good news is, everything on the list, we have at the hospital."

"And what's the bad news?" you pry.

"If you decide to go that route, you're going to have to sneak it out. Some things are disposable...kits, tubes, gloves. We don't have to worry about that. But larger equipment like the monitors and the defibrillator will have to be returned within 24 hours."

You shrug. It seems foolish to abscond with something, merely to bring it back it the next day. But it certainly isn't complicated.

"I'm sure that's feasible."

"Which brings me to the drugs."

"Drugs?"

He taps the paper with the tip of his pen and points to a series of words that he added to the list.

"ACLS drugs. Basically, chemicals that we can use to normalize heart rhythm. And you may not even need them. But it's better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them."

"Where are we supposed to get these _drugs_?"

"Well, I can't just take an entire crash cart from the hospital. They're likely to notice that. The pharmacy requires two digital signatures for every prescription, one from the pharmacist and one from the prescribing physician. And I can't sign out that much medication at once without raising some red flags. So...you're going to have to steal it."

"Wonderful. I haven't committed any crimes in a while. I was beginning to think I was losing my edge."

"I heard that you have a talent for making yourself...inconspicuous."

"You heard?" you echo, peeking at Jane. "From where, I wonder."

"Can you go undetected by, say, digital surveillance?"

You nod.

"Of course."

"Good. You wouldn't actually be breaking in. I can disable the lock on the interior entrance of the pharmacy in advance. There are five med-lockers. The drugs within them are stored in alphabetical order. I'll give you the names of the drugs and the codes to open the lockers. Once you are inside, all you need to do is grab everything on the list and get out. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes. And none of these drugs have recreational uses. So, as long as there's no sign of forced entry, there's unlikely to be a huge investigation when they go missing. They'll probably just think there was an error in the inventory."

"How soon can we do this?" Jane asks.

"I thinking we could do the procedure on Saturday morning."

"That's three days from now," she remarks. "Why are we waiting?"

"I require an authorization from the director of the facility to officially discharge a long-term resident. She manages several other hospitals. So, she only comes to our campus on Fridays. She spends the first few hours of the day in board meetings and then goes to lunch from noon to one. I won't be able to discharge Erik until Friday afternoon, sometime between 1pm and 5pm. And then, I'll have to stay at the hospital until around 11pm. So, I won't be able to join you until the following morning."

"Why are we bothering to get permission?" you ask. "Why not just take Erik now?"

"Because I'd rather not jeopardize my job unless I absolutely have to."

Jane nods.

"Fair enough."

"Is it?" you mumble, cheekily.

"In the interest of time, I can assemble some of the smaller things you'll need in advance. The pharmacy closes at 5pm on Fridays. The staff doesn't usually lock it up until around 5:45pm. I can alert you once they've done so. There's only one guard on duty on that side of the building, not counting the one who is manning the security cameras. As long as you can evade him, and you aren't detected by the cameras, you should be fine. My supervisor will leave the hospital around 5:30pm. Once she's gone, Dr. Foster can help me load the larger equipment into her vehicle."

He pauses and drums his fingers against the table.

"I feel compelled to remind you both that Erik requires constant supervision. Seeing as we will be discharging him earlier in the day, it's going to be difficult for the two of you to keep an eye on him while all this is going on."

"I have a friend who can help collect the equipment," Jane offers. "That way I can take Erik back to the house and watch him there."

You frown.

"A _friend_ ," you repeat. "What friend is that?"

Before she can issue a response, you hear the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine.

You turn and peer through the window by the entrance. Through the blinds you can see Steve's bike, approaching the restaurant. He parks right next to Jane's vehicle. When Jane catches sight of him, she rises from her seat, hastily.

"Would you excuse me?"

You watch Jane jog towards the exit, and make her way out to the parking lot. She greets Steve with a brief hug. The two of them linger by his bike and talk. You can't make out what they are saying. And from the way they are angled, you cannot see their faces well enough to read their lips.

Dr. Chen leans across the table, following your gaze.

"Oh my god…" he gasps, drawing his hands to his face. "Is that Steve Rogers?"

You sigh. Steve was once regarded as a celebrity among his people. Not unlike your brother, actually. During your adolescent years, whenever you left the palace with Thor, you could scarcely move about without tripping over some overly enthusiastic citizen. You roll your eyes as you recall it.

"Yes, it is," you return, dryly. "I'm sure, if you ask, he'll be happy to furnish you with an autograph."

Dr. Chen looks at you, confused.

He begins to babble, anxiously.

"Oh man...he must hate me. I mean, not _me_ personally. He probably doesn't even know who I am. But us...what _we_ did. Not that it was my idea or anything, because it wasn't. I was just doing my job..."

For the first time since you met him, he appears alarmed. You are intrigued. Because his reaction to Steve is apparently inspired not by awe or admiration, but fear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you point out.

"No, I guess you wouldn't."

"Well, whatever it is you did, I'm sure he's over it."

Jane and Steve make their way towards the restaurant and join you inside. When they reach the table, Steve extends his hand to Dr. Chen.

"Hello, I'm Steve Rogers."

"I...I'm Joe," the smaller man squeaks, nervously. "I mean, Dr. Chen. I'm Joe Chen."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Dr. Joe Chen."

Steve smiles and addresses you.

"Jane said you could use some help."

You feign shock.

"Did she?"

"She also said you might need distraction."

"I'm afraid you were misled," you reply, curtly.

"Oh?"

"I'm sorry she wasted your time."

Steve glances at Jane, prompting her to offer an explanation.

"Steve is going to help Dr. Chen get the equipment while I stay with Erik," she informs you.

"Well, that's very noble of him. But it's completely unnecessary. I can do it myself."

"I'm sure you can," she counters. "But it will be easier if you have help."

You glare at her.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, please? Outside."

You stand up and walk briskly towards the front entrance. She waits a few beats before following.

"Here's a thought," you tell her, once you are both outside, "you really need to stop speaking on my behalf."

"I wasn't speaking _on your behalf_. I simply thought that..."

"We do not need any more help, and I certainly don't need a _distraction_."

"First of all, we do need help. We need all the help we can get. Especially from someone who we know is trustworthy. And second, you are desperately in need a distraction. You're not going to be able to do this if you're all stressed out."

"I'm not _stressed out_. I feel fine."

"Okay. Let's just pretend for a moment that's true, which we both know it's not. _He_ needs a distraction. Most of his friends are dead and he barely leaves his apartment anymore."

"How is that my problem?"

"You're bored. He's bored. I thought you could be bored together."

"Oh, I'm not _that_ bored," you claim.

"Honestly, you have no idea how thrilled he was to finally have something to do."

You throw up your hands.

"I don't care."

"He came all this way," she points out. She gestures at his bike. "Look...he brought his overnight bag and everything."

"He's not staying at the house."

"It would just be for three days."

"And where is he supposed to sleep?"

"He can sleep on the couch that folds out. I can take Erik's room."

You grit your teeth at the suggestion. You know it is completely irrational, but you do not want anyone sleeping in Erik's room. It is exactly as he left it. Or it was until Jane insisted on tidying it the other day.

"You are unbelievable. It's bad enough that you invaded my home...but now you're encouraging others to do so as well. Is there anyone else you'd like to invite? How about the elderly gentlemen inside, with the newspaper? I'm sure he'd love to come along. Perhaps he can sleep in the kitchen."

"You're being juvenile."

"Am I? Am I really?"

"What if something happens to you while you're unconscious? Who do you think is going to pick you or Erik up off the floor...me? It's certainly not going to be Dr. Chen."

"If I had to make a list of all the people on this planet I'd want handling my unconscious body, Steve Rogers would be somewhere near the bottom."

"Where would I be?"

"Not much higher, I'm afraid."

"He just wants to hang out with you."

"No, he doesn't."

"Okay, he wants to hang out with someone. Why can't it be you?"

"This is not happening."

"I'm going back inside. I want to finish my toast."

"I hate you," you huff, loudly.

She laughs.

"No, you don't."

"We're not done talking about this," you bark at her.

Jane doesn't answer you. She goes back into the restaurant. You know that if you follow her, you are likely to pick a fight...either with her or with Steve. If you fight with Steve, it's entirely possible that violence will ensue. And while you are certain that you could defeat Steve in hand to hand combat, you really are not in the mood to do so. Especially not in such a public place.

What you really want to do is leave. You did not drive yourself to the restaurant, unfortunately. You rode with Jane.

You walk up to Jane's car and press your hand against the door, just above the latch. The locking mechanism is fairly simple and thus, rather easy to manipulate. You concentrate until you hear a click. Once the door is unlocked, you open it and slide into the driver's seat. You shut the door and lock it behind you.

You study the display panel. While it differs a bit from the one inside Erik's vehicle, the main elements are basically the same. You touch the ignition with your finger, pleased to discover that it takes only a spark of magic to start the engine. You put the car in reverse. The tires screech against the asphalt, as you back out of the space. You spin the vehicle around and make your way across the parking lot. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Jane standing in front of the restaurant, her arms folded. She looks positively exasperated.

You cannot help but smile. For the first time in a while you feel like you are in control of something. There is something thrilling about piloting a stolen vehicle, and it's been quite some time since you've done so. You drive around town for a bit, reveling in your freedom. You turn on the radio and raise the volume as high as it can go. You don't bother searching through the channels for a familiar song. You accelerate a bit beyond the speed limit, and then a bit more than that. You neglect to slow down or signal when making a turn. This is the most reckless thing you've done in years, not counting your recent experimentation with Erik's prescription medication. You assume it's only a matter of time before Jane makes an attempt to reacquire her car. You wonder if, perhaps, she will send Steve after you, or even notify the authorities. You peek in at the rear view mirror, periodically, waiting for something to happen. An hour or so passes and it becomes clear that absolutely no one is chasing you.

You pause at a red light to take out your cell phone and glance at the screen. You have no text messages, nor any missed calls.

Your anger fades far more quickly than you would like. Instead of stewing over that which motivated you to flee, you find yourself pondering the potential consequences of your actions. What will happen if Jane _does_ notify law enforcement? Will they apprehend you? Will the government revoke your citizenship? How will they go about banishing you from this planet? Do they even possess the ability to do so? Or will you spend the rest of your life languishing in a cell, alone and forgotten? What will happen to Erik? Will you ever see him again? Will they tell him what happened? Or will they just allow him to think that you abandoned him?

It occurs to you that even if Jane doesn't involve the authorities, she will still be furious. She may even withdraw her offer to help you with Erik. And certainly she will not be encouraging Steve to socialize with you after this. Not that you want to socialize with him, because you definitely don't. You know not why you are having these thoughts, or why you care about such trivialities.

Jane's vehicle has nearly a full tank of fuel. You could probably drive halfway across the country before needing to acquire more. You have cash in your wallet. Not a lot, but some. You could easily disguise yourself as someone else and start over in some far away town. But such endeavors are exhausting, and there is nowhere you can go that the government will not eventually locate you. Deep down, you know that you don't actually want to escape. And not just because you have nowhere in particular to go. You have a life here, albeit a limited one. You have a place that you think of as home, a place that you want to return to. Perhaps not every bridge you cross needs to be left burning in your wake.

After some deliberation, you turn the car around and head in the direction of home. Since you basically spent the past hour going in circles, it doesn't take you very long to get there. When you arrive at the house, you use the device in Jane's glove box to open the back gate. You do not see Steve's motorcycle anywhere. Only Erik's car is parked in the driveway. Fortunately, you left the back door unlocked.

You go inside the house and head directly to your room. You pull the door closed behind you. After you kick off your shoes and remove your jacket, you lie down on top of your bed. You curl onto your side, stare at the wall and think about what transpired at the restaurant.

You are irritated that Jane would involve Steve without asking you first. You are irritated with Jane in general. But you seriously doubt that Steve would do anything to compromise your plans. Like it or not, he is, as Jane said, _trustworthy_. And everything Dr. Chen proposed is perfectly reasonable. Both Steve and Dr. Chen obviously care about Erik on some level. Or, at least, they do not want any harm to come to him. You know not what you hope to gain by being so contrary.

You suddenly feel not like a grown man, but a naughty, little boy. In your mind you can hear your mother's voice: _Oh my! Somebody needs a nap._ You can picture yourself stomping your feet and insisting that you most certainly do not, that you would much rather go on playing. Which, of course, was futile. You would ultimately be dragged, often kicking and screaming, away from all the fun. And yet, despite your protestations, within minutes of being deposited on your bed you would be fast asleep.

You wonder if you truly are, as the Midgardians put it, _stressed out._ It's possible that such a thing could affect your ability to heal Erik. That's assuming that Jane is even still interested in helping you do so.

You recall your late night conversation with Erik, when he shared his diagnosis with you. His life was about to change forever, and yet your primary concern was for yourself and your own culpability. You despise depending upon others in any capacity. But this is not about you anymore, you realize. This is not about what you want. It is about Erik, about making him better. If such a thing is even possible, you owe it to him to try. And as much as you would like to believe that you are self-sufficient, you know that you are not. You cannot do this alone.

You hear the sound of the front door opening and closing. You glance at the clock. It's only been about thirty minutes since you came home. You sense Jane's presence immediately, though it seems she is alone. You listen carefully as she moves around the living room and kitchen. Not long after, she makes her way upstairs. She opens the door to your room and pauses in the doorway. You can feel her there, watching you. You decide that she is unlikely to bother you if she thinks you are truly asleep. And so, you close your eyes and concentrate on breathing slowly.

She stands there for a while. But she does not enter your room or attempt to engage you. She simply closes the door and goes back downstairs.

There is no reason why you should be tired. And yet, after about five minutes, you find yourself falling asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

_February 28, 2024_

Although you manage to stay in bed all day, you don't spend much of it sleeping. You peek at the clock periodically, only to confirm the passing of time. Mostly, you are feeling foolish about the little temper tantrum you threw earlier. You play the morning's events over and over again in your mind...as though the act of doing so might somehow alter the past.

You know that Jane is still in the house, somewhere. You can feel her energy crackling through the air like static electricity. You remember how, just yesterday, she accused you of _hiding_ here. At the time you were affronted by the mere suggestion. But upon further reflection, you realize that is precisely what you are doing. You are, in fact, hiding. Alas, you know not from what.

You are well aware that you cannot stay in your room forever. You will eventually have to face her. You want to get it over with. Though you are in no hurry to endure whatever sort of dressing down she undoubtedly has in store for you.

Only when your room becomes aglow with the purplish-blue light of dusk, do you finally summon the will to rise from your bed. Perched upon the edge of it, you stare at the window. You watch the sky grow dark and slowly work up the courage to venture downstairs.

You are a stubborn creature to be sure. And you are inclined to feign indifference, regardless of the circumstances. Thus, you stroll through the kitchen with your shoulders back and head held high. You brush past Jane, who is seated at the table with her computer. You head straight to the refrigerator, which you are admittedly pleased is now fully stocked with food. You reach inside to retrieve an apple, and quickly shut the door again.

You devote a ridiculous amount of time to polishing the exterior of the fruit with the hem of your shirt. You are definitely hungry, especially since you skipped your morning meal. Though you are playing with it, mostly. It is nice to have something in your hands, a prop to distract you from the persistent tension. It occurs to you that you cannot possibly be expected to engage in conversation if your mouth is otherwise occupied. So, you take a bite of your apple, and then a second one for good measure.

Naturally, that is when Jane chooses to break the silence.

"I brought you something," she informs you.

You regard her suspiciously. She reaches into her reach into her purse, which is sitting on the floor beside her chair. She pulls something from it and offers it to you. You lean forward, only slightly. After all, you don't wish to appear too interested. But even from where you are standing you are able to identify the object in question. It is a copy of TIME Magazine, dated March of 2019.

With so much food in your mouth, you are unable to issue a verbal response. In your haste, you begin to gag and nearly choke. The irony of the situation is not lost on you, of course. You recall bragging to Jane, whilst in your pill-induced haze, that you would never succumb to such a ludicrous end. Asgardian legend was fairly specific about the fate of those who died bravely and those who died without honor. But it included no such details about those who died stupidly.

You abandon the remainder of your apple on the counter and scramble over to the sink. You do not bother fetching a glass. You use your cupped hands to draw the liquid from the faucet to your lips. You spend several minutes grinding away at the remaining chunks of apple, and continue to take gulps of water until you manage to swallow every last fragment.

Despite the spectacle you are making, Jane is strangely quiet. She sits, patiently, waiting you to right yourself.

When you are finally able to speak, you snap at her.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

She ignores your barb and offers you the magazine again.

"I don't want it," you inform her, "in case that wasn't painfully clear."

"I really think you should read it," she maintains.

"Absolutely not."

"If you're afraid..." she begins.

"I'm not _afraid,"_ you interrupt, defensively. "Stop saying that."

"Then, why not just read it?"

"You know very well why."

"It's only three pages," she reasons, "and half of that is pictures."

"Pictures," you echo, warily, "of me."

"Actually, there's only one picture of you. The rest are of other people."

"What other people?"

"Other people who were interrogated by the government after the war."

"There's nothing in there I need to see," you huff.

"Or," she says, opening the magazine to what you assume is the appropriate page, "maybe what you need to _see_ is that there's nothing in there."

You do not approach her immediately. You spend another minute or so, deliberating. You eventually take a few steps towards her. When you are close enough, you read the title of the article: _Do the Ends Justify the Means?_

Like it or not, your curiosity is piqued. You take the magazine from her and carefully lower yourself into a chair.

Directly underneath the title of the article is the author's name, _Hakeem Ojukwu_.

"Hakeem Ojukwu," you say, looking at Jane. "Who is he?"

"Uh...he's a journalist. I don't really know anything about him, other than that he's from Wakanda. He writes a lot of exposé pieces about government corruption."

Earth's governments are wrought with corruption. Though you know not what that has to do with you.

In the center of the page, there is an image of you. It appears to have been captured with some sort of surveillance device, most likely when you were on Earth twelve years ago. In the picture, you are dressed in Midgardian formal wear. Otherwise, you look positively deranged...like some dark parody of your true self.

You scan the text above the picture. There is a brief summary of your interrogation. While there are a few excerpts that include direct quotes, they are mostly ambiguous.

Surprisingly, the author managed to describe your entanglement with Thanos without being too explicit. Just as Jane indicated, the author stated that you were pardoned of your crimes due to _temporarily diminished mental capacity._ You encounter a few terms with which you are unfamiliar, _Manchurian Candidate_ and _Stockholm Syndrome._ The context in which they are used implies that they are sympathetic in nature. Other than your name and your relationship to Thor, the article contains only a handful of details about your personal life.

On the pages that follow there are summaries from other people's interrogations as well, including Steve's. You read through the entire passage several times. While the author does paint you as a victim, in a broad sense, the article is far less exploitative than you anticipated. It appears the author's main goal was merely to expose unethical methods used to extract information from those he referred to as _enhanced beings_.

 _"Earth's collective governments have no qualms about relying upon enhanced beings for_ _protection._ _Yet, they continue to treat them like an inferior class of people who must constantly justify their right to exist."_

You've never met this _Hakeem Ojukwu_. You know not what would possess him to write about you or why he would have any compassion for you at all. You fully expected to be offended by the article. But mostly, you are intrigued.

Jane clears her throat to gain your attention.

"It's always been in my nature to lead," she says. "I've never been one to ask permission."

"I noticed," you quip, absently.

"It's gotten me in trouble more than a few times."

"I'm sure."

"When Erik told me that you tried to heal him," she adds, "I didn't take it seriously. He treated it like it was some sort of novelty. And so, I assumed that it was one. But when you brought it up yesterday, I realized that it wasn't a novelty at all."

You are only half listening to her, as your mind is still preoccupied with the article.

"I see life as a series of puzzles that need to be solved. I mean, that's what science is. It's problem solving. I wanted to solve this problem. For some reason, I thought that's what you wanted as well."

You nod, but say nothing.

"You said that you weren't ready for Erik to be gone," she reminds you.

You glance up at her.

"So?"

"I need to know...do you want my help with this or not?"

You close the magazine and set it on the table.

"Yes...and no."

"It has to be one or the other."

"Why?"

"If there's any chance at all that Erik could get better, I think it's worth exploring. But it doesn't matter what I think."

"It doesn't?"

"It isn't up to me. It's up to you. And I'm not doing this unless I know for sure that it's what you want."

"I don't want your help," you say, quietly. "But that has nothing to do with you."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

"I don't want to _need_ your help, or anyone else's. I just...want things to go back to the way they were."

"The way they were," she repeats. "Before the war?"

"No..."

"You mean, before Erik got sick."

You neither confirm, nor deny. You sigh and shift your body weight.

"You don't think this is going to work," she surmises.

You attempt to force a smile, but you suspect it more resembles a grimace.

"There's no reason why it shouldn't," you mutter, sheepishly.

"Wait...what?"

"You were right," you confirm. "You solved the puzzle...congratulations."

"Then, what's the problem?"

"There is no _problem_."

"Obviously, that is not the case. Or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

You recall the list of items she presented you with, and her meticulous attention to detail. Despite having zero prior knowledge of Asgardian practices she very quickly ascertained why your attempts to heal Erik were unsuccessful. It was never a mystery to you, however. You always knew precisely why it did not work.

It was not long after his diagnosis that Erik found you lying unconscious, on the floor beside his bed. Though he never openly acknowledged the reason, he seemed to know exactly why you were there. You tried in vain to convince him that it was no more than a temporary obstacle, one that could be overcome with the right amount of time and practice. Despite your protestations, he concluded that any endeavor sufficient to incapacitate you was best avoided altogether. You ceased your efforts immediately, just as he requested. You told yourself, at the time, that you were doing so out of respect. But you know that there has to be more to it than that. For rarely in your life has the word _no_ deterred you from doing anything.

What Jane doesn't know is that, somewhere deep in your most private thoughts, you envisioned yourself making Erik better. You fantasized about it, even. For by healing him, you would be offering him something that might actually be worthy of praise. You were admonished for your efforts. While there was nothing stopping you from trying again, you were sufficiently discouraged from doing so.

"What if we do this," you wonder, aloud, "and it doesn't mean anything?"

"Doesn't mean anything to whom?"

She is silent for a moment, waiting for you to reply. But you know not how to explain that which you barely understand yourself.

"What do you think is going to happen? Do you think that, once Erik is better, he won't need you anymore?"

You feel a brief flutter in your gut. Because that actually is, on some level, precisely what you were thinking. Except you were unable to articulate it as efficiently as she did just now.

"You think he's just going to throw you out? Or lock you away in a dungeon, somewhere?"

"What if he does?" you mumble.

"He won't."

"Right."

"Loki, Erik is dying. If you heal him, he will be grateful. _Anyone_ would be grateful."

But you know from experience that not everyone is grateful. Not always.

"Not necessarily," you return. "Some people cannot be pleased, no matter what."

When you sought to destroy Jötunheim, you did not do so out of a genuine desire to do harm. Certainly you were taught to fear and hate the Frost Giants. But you cared not about their fate, at least not with the same fervor as your brother and his friends. You wanted only to please Odin, to offer him something that would be worthy of his approval. It seemed you could never do right by him, no matter how hard you tried. You truly believed that by eliminating his most dreaded enemies, you would finally earn the validation you had been seeking. It did not end that way at all, regrettably. And only when you were rebuked for your efforts did it occur to you, it was not merely your actions that Odin was rejecting. Perhaps it was _you_ he did not want.

"You know," she shares, "I remember Thor talking about Odin like he was this ultimate authority on _worthiness_."

"He _was_ the All Father," you respond, automatically.

"A title which he bestowed upon himself, no doubt."

You frown at her assumption.

"By _his_ father, actually."

"Still...he wasn't infallible. He had no right to judge you, or anyone else. He made plenty of mistakes of his own."

"Is that so?"

"He may have lived for a long time," she continues, "but he wasn't a god, not technically. He was a man. Just like _you_ are a man..."

"Stop," you say, suddenly.

"Stop what?"

You are unsure where, exactly, she is going with all of this. While her observations have merit, Jane cannot possibly have any inkling of what sort of _mistakes_ your father truly made. It is possible that Thor filled her in on the broad strokes. But given how blindly your brother worshiped Odin, it seems highly unlikely that he would divulge anything incriminating.

During your lifetime, you held many negative opinions about your father. Some of which you continue to hold. As far as you're concerned, you earned the right to do so. Yet, you find that you are unable to tolerate hearing someone else openly criticize him.

"Where I come from we don't speak ill of the dead."

"I wasn't..."

"I know this is all trivial to you, but it isn't trivial to me."

"I never said it was _trivial_."

"It's not necessary for you to deconstruct my culture. I am well aware of its flaws and inconsistencies."

"Erik is not Odin," Jane announces.

The statement echoes through your brain for a moment. She is correct in your assessment. Erik is nothing at all like Odin. Still, you are unnerved by how easily she unraveled your subtext.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"It's not as though he was all bad," you insist, half-halfheartedly.

"Of course not. No one is _all bad_. But it sounds like he was bad enough. And if I didn't know any better, I would think that you feel guilty for acknowledging that."

You chuckle, weakly.

"I don't feel guilty."

It's evident that she doesn't believe you. Which is not unreasonable, since you are lying.

"Alright."

"Odin's expectations were quite high," you confide, "and his reinforcement somewhat lacking. I...may have occasionally speculated about who I might have been, had someone else been my father instead."

"Someone else," she repeats, "like Erik?"

You consider all the people in your life who held authority over you. Some of whom by force. Others via various forms of manipulation. Erik's authority over you was only ever an illusion. And yet, there was such a gentleness to him, that you submitted to it willingly.

"Rather self-indulgent of me, I suppose."

"I don't think that's self-indulgent."

"Even so...there's no use pondering something that cannot be."

She is visibly dumbfounded.

"But it _can_ be."

In spite of Odin's persistent criticisms, you constantly sought his approval. But mostly, you lived in fear of his condemnation. With Erik, you could freely admit to folly, and even seek forgiveness for it. He never lorded it over you. Nor did he expect you to pay for your transgressions by sacrificing your dignity or personal comfort. Jane is correct. You do feel guilty. Just not for the reason she suggested. You don't feel guilty for disparaging Odin. You feel guilty because, despite Erik's undeniable generosity and kindness, you cannot bring yourself to trust him.

"It would be no more than a ridiculous charade," you ramble. "I am no longer a child. I do not require a guardian. Erik does, at times, mistake me for his son. But he does so only because he is unwell. The fact is, he is not my father. Nor should I assume that he would want to be."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No..."

"You're really something else," she tells you, angrily. "For someone so intelligent, you can be incredibly dense."

You frown at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've known Erik for most of my life. And yet, when he discovered that he was sick, he didn't come to me for help. He went to you."

"Due to sheer proximity, I assure you."

"And he didn't choose me to make medical decisions on his behalf. He chose you."

"I won't pretend to know why he did that. I certainly never asked him to."

"I'm sure you didn't."

You detect a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Perhaps it is you who is envious," you accuse.

She holds up her hands, in a defensive gesture.

"I'm not.. _believe_ me. I'm just making a point."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"I know Erik had you sign a mountain of legal paperwork. Did you happen to read any of it?"

You press your lips together. firmly. You are reluctant to answer. Because, the truth is, you didn't actually read every single page. You simply provided your signature wherever Erik indicated you should do so.

"And you didn't find it suspicious that Erik listed you as his _next of kin?"_

"It was just a formality."

"No, it wasn't. You don't have to be related to someone to act as their medical proxy."

You feel yourself growing frustrated. She claimed to have a point. You wish she would hurry up and get to it.

"Speak plainly or not at all," you demand.

"It wasn't just a symbolic gesture. Erik made a conscious decision to call you his son...in an official capacity."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually. I was there when he met with the attorney...who, by the way, he paid to fabricate supporting documents, just in case the nature of your relationship was ever contested."

You recall asserting to Dr. Chen that Erik was not, in fact, your father. He seemed almost amused by it. When he referenced _paperwork_ that suggested otherwise, you assumed he was making a joke.

Jane seems to think that this should all mean something to you. Though you genuinely do not understand what. If Erik wanted you to care for him, throughout his decline, it makes sense that he would want to prevent you from encountering any sort of legal obstacles. After all, you could not very well make decisions about his medical care if you were confined to a cell, somewhere.

"If you want me to leave," she says, "I'll leave."

You find it curious that she would make such an offer. Especially now. You don't want her to leave, not really. Because you know that if she does, nothing more will happen. Erik won't get better, ever. He will get sicker and eventually die. And then you will have no one. If there is some sort of middle ground between enduring the company of others and being utterly and completely alone, you know not where to find it.

"I don't want you to leave."

She nods, looking pleased.

"Good...okay."

You eye her, inquisitively.

"Why did you not call the authorities when I absconded with your vehicle?"

"I don't know. I thought about it."

"But something stopped you."

"I'm not really sure what. I guess...I didn't want you to get in trouble. And I figured you'd just come back here."

You wonder how she arrived at such a conclusion. Initially, you fully intended to flee. It was not until after you drove around for several hours that you realized all you really wanted was to come home.

"Have I become so predictable?" you ask.

"There are worse things to be."

"Were you not concerned about the fate of your...property?"

"I have maximum liability coverage."

"I'm afraid I don't know what that means."

"It means that...since things have a way of falling out of the sky and landing on my vehicle, I would rather be safe than sorry."

You can only imagine what sort of things she is referring to. You picture Thor arriving on Earth, via the Bifrost, and inadvertently destroying Jane's car. Or, worse yet, leveling an entire city block. Your lips quiver into a smile.

"Did you want me to be concerned?" she prompts.

"I _did_ drive rather recklessly."

She clutches her chest, dramatically.

"Really?"

"I exceeded the posted speed limit on several occasions."

"How many is several?"

"As least...two or three times."

She dismisses your confession with a wave of her hand.

"I do that pretty much every day."

"And I drove straight through a red light."

"Shocking."

"It was actually yellow," you amend, "but I believe it may have turned red while I was still passing through the intersection."

"I think that still counts."

"Oh, grand."

She laughs. You spent most of the day engaging in pointless speculation about your hasty departure from the restaurant. You were expecting far worse. At the very least, you were expecting her to berate you. With the issue addressed, the tension slowly leaves your body and you begin to relax.

You catch her staring down at your hands. Her gaze lingers there for several seconds.

"What?" you pry.

She doesn't reply. She grabs your right hand, turns it over, and inspects your palm. She runs her finger along the portion of skin that you seared when you held it against the toaster the morning prior.

"What are you doing?" you ask, even though it is obvious.

"The burn," she points out, "it's completely healed."

She is correct. Just as you predicted, there is no scar, no sign whatsoever that you injured yourself.

"So what?"

"That's...incredible."

You shrug.

"Not really."

"Well, it is to me."

Her expression grows serious again.

"Look, I'm not doing this unless I'm certain that it's what you want."

"I don't know what I want," you admit.

"Do you want Erik to get better?"

You already know the answer. You still hesitate before responding.

"Yes."

"I need to know," she asks, "are we doing this or not?"

You look down at your right hand. She is still holding onto it, though you know not why.

"We are," you confirm, softly.

She tugs on you a bit.

"And no more games," she scolds, playfully. "No more taking off with my car."

You roll your eyes.

"How do you expect me to amuse myself under such restrictions?"

She lets go of your hand and gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"You don't have to amuse yourself, remember? You're going to hang out with Steve."

You sigh, theatrically. You forgot about Steve. You wonder where he is right now, since he clearly did not follow her into the house. Perhaps he is elsewhere. Or maybe he is outside. You would not put it past him to build himself a rugged shelter in the yard...and to then insist that it was no trouble to do so.

"I changed my mind," you tell her. "I want you to leave."

"Nope...sorry. It's too late. You already agreed."

"What, exactly, do you think the two of us are going to do together? We have absolutely nothing in common."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"I shudder to think what that man does for recreation. He probably runs about the town, looking damsels in distress."

"Not these days."

You recall what Jane said this morning, about all of Steve's friends being dead, about how he rarely leaves his apartment. You assumed that she was exaggerating. Now, you wonder if perhaps she wasn't. Still, the man must be desperate for companionship if he would consider socializing with you.

"Fine," you concede, wearily, "but I refuse to have fun, and you can't make me."

"Oh," she replies, "I wouldn't dream of it."


	19. Chapter 19

**_I guess this is my longest chapter yet. But I couldn't really make it any shorter so...oh well._**

* * *

 _March 1, 2024_

When Steve shows up at the house, he brings his overnight bag. He is annoyingly chipper. Which is hardly a surprise. He is usually in good spirits, regardless of the circumstances. Which is probably the only stark contrast between he and Thor. Thor could be downright jovial at times. But his moods could turn dark just as quickly. Steve, on the other hand, is what Erik would refer to as a _morning person_. You're not really sure what that makes you. It is strange for someone's defining characteristic to be their favorite time of day.

"This was not my idea," you say, bluntly.

"I know that."

"Dr. Foster insisted that we socialize, you see. She's become quite meddlesome."

"She's a good friend."

You frown at his response. You briefly consider asking whether he heard you correctly.

"So, what exactly is it that we will be doing?" you inquire, instead.

"You know where the university is?"

"I do."

"Well, there are some batting cages near there. I thought we could..."

"I'm not particularly fond of _cages,"_ you interrupt.

He regards you, oddly.

"Uh...no. It's not that kind of cage. A batting cage is...you go in there to practice your batting."

"And _batting_ is?"

"It's hitting a baseball with a bat. It's a sports thing."

"Sports," you repeat. "Of course."

You were trained in every conceivable form of combat, as were most young, Asgardian males. But you never sought out athletic activities for recreational purposes. Such pursuits were more Thor's arena.

"It's not hard," he assures you. "Kids do it."

"We're going to play a children's game."

"No...I mean, children _do_ play baseball. But so do grown men."

"Let's just get this over with."

Somehow you are expecting Steve to critique your driving or fiddle with the buttons on the dashboard of Erik's car. But the only things he actually touches are the door when he opens it, and the seat belt when he puts it on. He is content to stare out the front window and bob his head to whatever music you select. You, too, wear your seat belt. But only because the law demands it.

You are still only a short distance from the house, when you see the reflection of a bright light in your rear view mirror. The light, which is affixed to the front of a motorcycle, is rapidly flashing, alternating between red and blue. You glance at Steve, hoping to gauge the seriousness of the situation. Steve definitely looks concerned.

You learned from observation that a driver signaled in his manner is to steer their vehicle to the side of the road. While your instinct is to flee, you know that it is pointless to do so. You don't have anywhere to go. And if you do anything to compromise your freedom, Erik will suffer also.

You grip the steering wheel tightly, trying to maintain your composure. Steve is studying you closely. So, you endeavor to appear more at ease than you actually feel. You are confused as to what prompted the officer to signal you in the first place. Just yesterday, you managed to gallivant, carelessly, about the town in Jane's vehicle, without attracting any attention whatsoever. This morning, however, you made a concerted effort not to exceed the posted speed limit or break any of the countless rules that drivers are required to observe.

Not long after his diagnosis, Erik had been informed by his physician that, due to the rapid progression of his illness, he should no longer attempt to operate an automobile.

 _"I'm going to need you to drive for me from now on,"_ he told you.

 _"So, I gathered."_

 _"I want you to be careful,"_ he added.

 _"I know how drive a car."_

 _"I know you do. I still want you to be careful."_

 _"I'm always careful,"_ you replied with a shrug.

 _"More careful, then."_

You sighed, wishing he would change the subject. You did not fully appreciate, at the time, that this was only the first of many such changes that would ultimately take place.

 _"You've seen the news. You know what sort of things can happen. If you're ever pulled over, for any reason, I want you to be cooperative."_

 _"How are we defining cooperative?"_ you quipped.

 _"Can you be serious, please?"_

 _"No..."_

He moved into your space, so you could not ignore him.

 _"If a police officer ever signals you, pull over right away. Shut off the engine. Roll your window down…just enough so you can pass them your identification. Have your identification ready. And keep your hands where the officers can see them. Do not give them any reason to think that you are armed. Be polite…and don't argue."_

 _"Fine,"_ you agreed, if only to put an end to the discussion.

You disable the radio. You turn the key to shut off the engine. You roll down the window, only partway, just as Erik instructed. Then you retrieve your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans.

The officer parks behind you, dismounts his motorcycle and approaches your window.

"Good morning," he says. "I couldn't help noticing that your tags are expired."

Your eyes fall closed.

 _Shit._

With everything that is going on, you completely forgot about the notice that came in the mail.

"Yes," you respond, as cordially as possible, "it came to my attention recently that I had forgotten to renew them. And I plan to do so immediately."

"And this car is registered to you?"

You recall how the notice was addressed not just to Erik, but to you as well. You know not what prompted Erik to list you as an _owner_ of this vehicle, but now you are relieved that he did.

"It is," you say.

You make eye contact with the officer and gesture towards the glove compartment in front of the passenger seat. You wait for him to acknowledge you before leaning over and opening the little door. You retrieve the vehicle registration, and hand it to the officer.

He surveys the document and then looks at Steve.

"Are you Erik?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Uh...no."

"I'm going to need to see some identification," he tells you. He nods at Steve. "And from you as well."

He either doesn't know who you are or he doesn't care. You slide the small, plastic card with your likeness on it out of your wallet and hand it over to the officer. Steve passes his to you and you give it to the officer as well.

"I'll be right back," he says, without examining either of the cards.

"This is bad," you say, frankly.

"It's not that bad," Steve replies, encouragingly. "You'll probably just get a fine or something."

But you can tell by his tone of voice that even he doesn't believe what he is saying. On Earth, traffic violations are somewhat minor, as criminal offenses go. Based on what you know about this realm, however, depending on your station in society any interaction with law enforcement has the potential to go horribly awry. And last you checked, your station isn't terribly high.

You think of the paper money you have in your wallet.

"I don't suppose we could bribe him," you suggest.

"That will only get you into worse trouble."

When the officer comes back, he does not return your identification.

"Could you step out of the vehicle, please?"

Steve actually leans over and addresses the officer.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"Both of you," the officer amends. "Step out of the vehicle, please."

Your heart is beating a bit faster than it was just moments ago. You open the door, slowly, careful to keep your hands visible as much as possible. You notice that Steve is doing the same.

It's not an entirely conscious choice, what you do next. Just as when you rendered yourself invisible in the grocery store, it's more of a reflex or a coping mechanism than anything else.

Once you and Steve are out of the car, the officer gapes at you both. Steve looks first at you, and then at himself. You are covered from head to toe in traditional Asgardian battle-wear. Steve is now donning the flashy, tight uniform that he was sporting when you first met. He regards the shield in his hand awkwardly before setting it down on a nearby patch of grass.

To his credit, the officer manages to stifle his shock. If he didn't know who you were before, he definitely does now. With obvious trepidation, he hands you back your identification cards. You immediately store yours away with magic. Steve waves his at you, playfully.

"Where am I supposed to put this, now?"

You roll your eyes.

"It's not my fault that you don't have any pockets in that thing."

The officer interjects, reluctantly.

"Uh...I realize this is extremely inconvenient, but I have to seize this vehicle."

"Is that really necessary?" Steve asks. "Couldn't you just issue him a warning?"

"I would, normally. But his account has been flagged."

"Flagged?" you echo, hoping the officer will shed further light on your predicament.

"You're considered a high risk driver because of your..." he pauses and studies you, warily. "...unusual citizenship situation. High risk drivers have no grace period."

"His record is otherwise clean, isn't it?" Steve counters. "Maybe you could make an exception."

The officer holds up his hands in a defensive gesture.

"His record _is_ clean. But I couldn't make an exception, even if I wanted to. I scanned his identification when I ran the inquiry. It's in the system. And his registration is already six months overdue. To be honest, I'm actually surprised that he hasn't been pulled over before now."

"Splendid," you mutter to yourself.

"You're both free to go," the officer says. "But I do have to take the vehicle. So, if you need anything out of it, you should get it now."

There's nothing in the car that you need, of course. You already have your wallet and your cellular phone.

"Do you mind?" Steve asks, as the officer walks back to his motorcycle.

"Do you not find this more aesthetically pleasing than your everyday garments?"

"It's just a costume."

"Very well."

You wave your hand, returning you both to your natural state. The shield on the grass disappears. Once Steve has his regular clothing back, he pulls out his wallet and puts his identification away.

The officer notifies you that you will be allowed retrieve the car once you can show proof that the registration was paid. He warns you that your license is _suspended_ until you do, and that if you drive again in the meantime, you run the risk of being arrested.

While you wait for the tow truck to arrive, Steve calls Jane on his cell phone and explains the situation to her. After he hangs up, he informs you that since you are within walking distance of the university, there's no reason to abandon your plans. You can trek there on foot, and Jane will pick you up there in a few hours. You are no longer in the mood to engage in recreation, not that you were ever really in the mood to begin with. But neither are you in the mood to argue about it. You decide that, for the time being, it will be less trouble to simply acquiesce.

Driving with Steve was awkward enough. Walking with him is even more so. The space around you is so wide and open. You begin to more fully process the fear you experienced earlier, during that brief span of time when your fate was unknown. You scan your surroundings constantly, searching for potential danger. Steve is substantially more at ease. He walks with his hands in the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, cheerfully greeting the occasional passing stranger.

You are quiet. Mostly because you are cross with yourself for being so forgetful. You can picture yourself healing Erik, and his first inquiry being about the state of his automobile, at which point you explain that you are an idiot who apparently cannot remember to perform basic chores. Perhaps he will glean some satisfaction from knowing that you were polite to the police officer. Or maybe he will be too angry to care.

Up ahead on the sidewalk, you spy a trio of old crones who are engaging rather aggressively with pedestrians. You are curious what they are selling, as they appear to be holding something in their hands. When you note that they are standing in front of a church, you groan inwardly. You have no desire to be the target of propaganda, religious or otherwise.

You consider crossing the street, so you can avoid them altogether. But that seems rather cowardly. You could easily disguise yourself as someone else, or vanish into thin air. You are reminded of Steve's recent assessment that your illusions are _just a costume_. You refuse to allow him further opportunity to cast judgment upon you.

As you approach the women, one of them attempts to hand you something. When you do not take it, she explains that it is a free copy of the _New Testament_. Steve informs the women, rather proudly, that he already owns one. Which you don't doubt. He probably owns several. Satisfied that Steve's soul does not need saving, the women direct their attention at you.

"Tell me, young man," one pries, nosily, "have you found Jesus?"

You sneak a quick peek at Steve. You are delighted to witness a rapid change in his demeanor. He now looks substantially more apprehensive. Your own discomfort melts away, replaced by an overwhelming desire to cause mischief.

"I _did_ find him," you inform the old woman.

"Wonderful!" she exclaims, gleefully.

"He was in the wardrobe the whole time, if you can believe it."

The woman's expression falls. She frowns at you.

"The wardrobe?"

You promptly correct yourself.

"Or closet, rather. The place where you hang your outerwear? That is what you call it, is it not?"

The three ladies exchange confused glances.

"He must have been in there for half a day. He's a really patient chap, that Jesus."

"Loki…" Steve warns, drawing a hand to his face.

You ignore him.

"Anyway, he said to let you know that it's your turn to hide."

"Our what?" another of the women asks.

"And that you'd better hurry up," you add, "because he's already started counting."

The women, who are now positively mortified, are also thankfully rendered silent. You stroll past them, grinning. You can hear Steve apologizing to them on your behalf, attributing your crude behavior to a cultural misunderstanding. Which, ordinarily, would annoy you to no end. But in this case it only serves to intensify your amusement.

When Steve catches up to you, he glares at you, disapprovingly.

"That was completely unnecessary."

"I have no patience for proselytism," you huff.

"You could have just said _no thank you_."

"I see you have forgotten your own realm's dark history. Shall I refresh your memory?"

He sighs.

"Those women are not organizing a crusade. They're giving away free Bibles."

"You may have noticed," you declare, "nothing around here is really _free_. Everything comes with a price."

"Politeness is free."

You scoff, tossing your hand.

"You have no sense of humor."

Neither of you speak for the remainder of your journey. When you reach your destination, you are relieved to see that there are only a few people in the vicinity. You survey the aforementioned _cages_...clusters of small, mesh enclosures. Beside them there is a tiny hut with a window.

You wait while Steve walks over to the hut. He greets the young man inside. They exchange some words and he hands Steve something, which Steve deposits into his pocket. He then passes Steve two shiny, metal clubs. Steve turns around and makes his way back to you.

"Are those our weapons?" you inquire, cheekily. "It's a little early in the day for a duel, isn't it?"

He leads you over into one of the cages.

"These are bats," he explains, handing one to you. "I prefer wood, personally. But these ones are made of aluminum."

"Fascinating."

He raises his eyebrow, suspiciously.

"Is it?"

His tone is uncharacteristically sassy. So, you offer him a saccharine smile.

"Actually, no. I was just being polite. It's _free_ , you know."

He ignores your remark.

"Normally," he continues, "you'd wear a helmet to protect your head."

"My head does not need protecting."

"I saw you wearing a helmet just twenty minutes ago,"

"It's mostly ornamental."

"Well, you don't have to wear a helmet if you don't want to. Some places require it. But here, it's only mandatory for children."

You lift your bat with one hand. It's lighter than you anticipated.

"So, what do I do with this thing?"

Steve spaces his legs apart and bends his knees a bit. He grips his own bat with both hands, similarly to the way one might hold a sword. He swings it a few times, demonstratively.

"One person puts a token into the machine and loads the balls into it. The machine pitches the balls to the other person. The other person hits the balls with their bat."

"And then what?" you ask, unimpressed.

"Then...nothing. You just take turns hitting the balls, until you use up all your tokens."

"And you find this entertaining?"

He doesn't acknowledge your question. He points to the opposite side of the cage, where a portion of the fence has been marked in red.

"You'll want to aim for the top left.".

Steve doesn't wait for you to reply. He walks over to the apparatus. Beside it there is a large receptacle that is filled with balls. He pulls a token from his pocket and puts it into a slot on the side of the apparatus. He loads a ball into it. A few seconds later, the ball is fired directly at your face. Fortunately, it appears to be moving fairly slowly. You swing your bat and make contact with it, easily. The ball goes flying across the cage and ricochets off the top left portion of the fence.

"Nice," Steve comments.

"Hmm," you say, boredly. "I don't suppose the ball can go any faster."

He is clearly shocked that you fared so well on your first try. You're certain that Thor filled him in on all your physical inadequacies at some point.

"Well...I can crank it up to 90 miles per hour if you want."

"That's it?"

"Afraid so."

You nod.

"Alright."

He seems amused by your request.

"You're sure."

"I'm sure."

He fiddles with a level on the side of the apparatus and loads another ball into it. The ball comes firing at you, slightly more rapidly than before. You swing your bat. You make contact, although not quite as effortlessly as you did the first time. The ball hits the side of the bat and goes flying towards the ceiling of the cage.

Steve loads another ball. This time, you are prepared. When you swing the bat, the ball makes perfect contact and is propelled forward at tremendous speed. He loads another ball and another. Each time you send it flying in a perfect line, directly towards the target that he indicated. While you wouldn't go so far as to call it satisfying, you now have some idea why Steve might enjoy doing it so much.

You turn to find Steve grinning at you.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just...you're very good at this."

"Surprised?"

"Not at all. I just never thought I'd see you playing baseball."

"Well, it was your idea."

"Yeah."

You stand, staring at him. You are unsure of what is supposed to happen next.

"I suppose it's your turn," you offer.

He shrugs.

"I've done this before, a few hundred times. If you want to go again, it's fine with me. I got plenty of tokens."

"Might as well. Since, I'm already here."

You hit another few dozen balls, before your tokens run out. Steve drags it out a quite bit, pausing frequently to share what he refers to as _baseball trivia_. You are truly disinterested. You would much rather just swing your bat and hit the balls, without the ongoing commentary. Every time you are tempted to say so, you hear Erik's voice in your head...telling you not to be rude. You know he wouldn't approve of your interaction with the ladies in front of the church, either. Even though he despises organized religion as much as you do. He would have graciously accepted a free Bible, just to be polite, and then taken it home and used it to wedge open a door or level a wobbly piece of furniture.

Jane comes to retrieve you not long after. You wait for her to mention the car, or probe for details about the time you spent with Steve. But she does neither. She brings you both back to the house. You enter through the back door. Jane goes directly to the living room but Steve seats himself at the kitchen table.

His overnight bag, which he brought inside when he arrived this morning, is on the floor beside his chair. He reaches down into it and withdraws a tall, black bottle.

"A buddy of mine made this for me a while back," he says, setting the bottle on the table.

"What is it?"

"It's liquor."

Somehow, that is not the answer you were expecting.

"See, I can't really get drunk," he explains. "My body processes the alcohol too quickly for me to enjoy its...effects."

That does give you pause.

"Perhaps we have something in common after all."

"Yeah, I thought maybe you...I mean, I remember Thor mentioning that our alcohol wasn't quite strong enough for him. I wasn't sure if that applied to you as well."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because _this_ is not regular liquor. It was made specifically with me in mind. So, it was distilled using a very special process."

You suppress a smile.

"Go on."

"Supposedly, it's ten times stronger than Tequila, and it takes four times as long to metabolize. So...I could theoretically become intoxicated. Not for very long, of course. It would only last a few hours."

"Why have you not consumed it before now?"

"I don't know. I guess I was saving it for a special occasion."

"I see. Is this a _special occasion_?"

"This...is the probably most interesting thing I've done in the last six years."

You know he's not referring to the events of the day, but that which has yet to take place. Since you came to stay on Earth, your life hasn't exactly been thrilling either. If your effort to heal Erik is successful it will definitely be, as he himself would put it, _a big deal_.

"I thought this might be a good time to break it open," he offers.

"And share it with me?"

"Sure. Why not?"

You walk over to the counter by the sink and open the cupboard above it. You know that Erik owns some appropriate glasses. You remember seeing them at some point. You locate two of them, hiding behind a stack of plates. You grab them both and close the cupboard. The glasses are dusty, however. And you would prefer not to drink from a dusty glass. You rinse the glasses in the sink and dry them with paper towel. You fully expect Steve to make a comment or draw attention to your fussiness. Because Thor definitely would have. But he just waits, patiently, for you to finish what you are doing.

You set the two glasses on the kitchen table. Steve picks up the bottle and aims it away from himself. When he uses his thumb to break the seal, you hear a loud pop. The metal cap goes flying. Steve pours out a small amount of dark liquid for each of you.

He raises his glass.

"Um...good luck. I hope this all works out for Erik...and for you."

"I don't believe in luck," you say, reaching for your glass.

"Well, what _do_ you believe in?"

You hesitate when you realize that you aren't sure.

"I...don't know."

"You must believe in something. Everyone believes in something."

You stare at him, awkwardly. You know not how to answer. You fear that he might take this opportunity to preach about ancient Earth mythology, or even encourage you to _find Jesus_.

"What do you say when you toast someone?" he asks.

"Toast? You mean like with bread?"

"No, when you raise your glass for someone...to honor them or wish them well."

"We say skål."

"Skull," he echoes.

"No," you correct, "skål...it rhymes with _bowl_."

"Skawl," he tries again.

"Close enough."

"What does it mean?"

"It doesn't really translate. A skål is like...it's a large vessel. You and your friends pass it around and drink ale from it."

"Huh."

"Which is quite unsanitary, now that I think about it."

He laughs and raises his glass to you.

You lift your glass as well

"Skål," you tell him.

You both down the contents of your glasses in one gulp. The horrid flavor lingers on your tongue. Your mouth contorts, involuntarily.

"Oh," you remark, "this is...really foul."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It's pretty bad. Do you want another?"

"Of course."

Somehow, the flavor is even worse than before. It does not taste like something that was intended for consumption.

"Oh, it's really awful."

He laughs in agreement.

"Yep."

Jane enters the kitchen. She can clearly see the bottle and the two empty glasses. Yet, she still issues an inquiry.

"What are you two doing?"

"We are having a drink," you provide.

Your speech comes out a little more slurred than you would like. Whatever is in the bottle is not only very strong, but it also works very quickly.

"In the middle of the day?" she comments, glancing at Steve. "Are you responsible for this?"

" _Am_ I responsible?" he echoes, blankly.

"That's a good question," you tease. You turn to Jane. "I'd have to say _no_ , at this point."

Steve snickers and you do as well.

Jane directs her attention to you.

"Do you really think this is a good idea, considering what we're doing this evening?"

"Nope."

"It will be out of his system in a few hours," Steve assures her. "It's not even noon. We have plenty of time."

Jane peers at the bottle.

"What does it taste like?"

"Like pure gasoline," Steve supplies, pouring you each another glass.

You drink yours as quickly as possible. The less time it spends in your mouth, the better.

"Can I have some?" she asks.

"No," you and Steve reply, in unison.

You glance at one another, before erupting into raucous laughter. You know that you are intoxicated. You feel foolish, but in a good way. You will probably regret this tomorrow, possibly even sooner than that. But right now, you are going to enjoy it.

Jane shrinks back in mock horror. While it's obvious that her goal is to convey disapproval, you can see that she is pleased.

"Okay then. Carry on."

"You know," Steve says, after Jane leaves the room, "you _can_ trust me."

The comment catches you off guard.

"Why would you care whether I trust you?"

He shrugs his shoulders a bit.

"I don't know. It just seems kind of like you don't."

"I trust you not to poison me," you joke, lifting your glass. "Of course, I'm still not entirely sure that you haven't."

"Yeah."

"I don't trust anyone. Don't take it personally."

But you can tell by looking at him that he is taking it personally. You know not how someone so strong can possibly be so sensitive, or why he cares what you think of him at all.

You read somewhere that it took nearly ten years for the city of New York to clean up the damage you caused over the span of three days, and that it cost a tremendous amount of money. For Asgard, ten years was but a blink. For Earth, however, you know that ten years is a long time. And certainly, Asgard did not concern itself with the cost of things. But Earth is a currency driven realm. Nearly every experience is monetized in some fashion.

Even when you returned home in chains, you did not truly regret your actions. You regarded them with an almost crass degree of insouciance. Because you'd been raised to believe that Midgardians were somewhat insignificant in the grand scheme of things. To cause them harm was paltry…akin to swatting at mere insects. They were always squabbling and slaying one another. Therefore, it mattered not whether you killed them. And even if you did feel any remorse, you would have refrained from expressing it. For to do so would be admitting to weakness.

You find yourself actually wanting to say something nice, or at least something that isn't horrible. Except that you have no idea what that might be. You know not what Steve values most. Honesty? Humility? Neither of those things have ever come easily to you. Perhaps things would have turned out differently for you if they had.

"I'd likely be in a cell right now, if not for you."

He is visibly confused by your statement.

"What...for expired registration?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh."

You can see that you're going to have to be more direct.

"What I'm saying is, I never thanked you. Not properly, anyway."

Steve is taken aback by your unprompted congeniality. He at least has the sense to regard it casually.

"That's alright," he replies.

"You must think I'm terribly ungracious."

"No, I don't."

"I...just don't understand why you facilitated my release."

"You earned your freedom, Loki. I didn't give it to you."

"Right. Well...I'm trying to say, rather ineloquently, that I am grateful."

"I know you are."

"I don't see how you possibly could."

"Your words don't tell me what sort of person you are. Your actions do."

"Oh?" You return.

You know not to which actions he is referring, and you don't want to ask.

"You really don't remember your interrogation?"

You are once again caught off guard.

"Do you remember yours?"

"Some parts. I remember that they asked about things that they didn't even need to know, things that had nothing to do with…" he pauses, making an expression you've never seen upon his face before. It most closely resembles that of disgust. "I remember that it was humiliating."

You wouldn't say that you like Steve Rogers. Nor do you dislike him. But he seems like the sort of person who has been decent all his life and you highly doubt that he has ever done anything of which he should be ashamed.

"What could you possibly have to hide?"

"It's not about hiding. It's about privacy. Some things are just none of anyone else's business."

"Such as what?"

"Would that help you? To know my personal business?"

You recall Steve mentioning that he once saw a transcript of your interrogation.

"You seem to know plenty of mine."

"Yeah," he agrees. He stares off into the distance for a moment, as though he is contemplating what you said.

You fidget with your empty glass, waiting to see whether he will disclose anything of interest.

"I got beat up a lot when I was a kid," he offers.

"Beat up," you repeat.

"I got into fights with other boys and...lost."

"Why?"

"Because I was small and weak."

"Tragic."

You suffered a similar plight yourself, as a child. Though you are reluctant to draw any comparison between his experiences and your own.

"I went to camp during the summer."

"Camp?"

"Camp is like…it's a place where kids go, and they stay there for a few weeks or months and they sleep in cabins and fish and do crafts and ride horses…"

"Ah."

"Anyway, I was there the summer I turned 12 and there was this girl from school who I...kind of liked. And one night I had a dream about her."

"A dream?"

"It was an arousing dream," he clarifies. "And when I woke up the next morning…I had, you know…"

You shake your head.

"Uh...no. I don't know."

He gestures discreetly towards his lap.

When you finally piece it together, your face becomes flushed.

"Oh."

You rarely think of such things. You recall Odin being reluctant to address topics that he had deemed to be sensitive in nature. Any questions posed by you or Thor, regarding the functioning of your bodies, were frequently redirected to Frigga. Though Thor often protested, it bothered you not. Your mother had served as a midwife, and was well practiced in the healing arts. She always provided you and your brother with thorough answers.

While humans reach sexual maturity rather rapidly, Asgardians did so in a more meandering fashion. Though you are physically an adult, you are nowhere near the proper age for selecting a mate. Not only was Thor was several hundred years your senior, he began the process prematurely. It was to that which you had ultimately attributed his untimely fixation on Jane.

You consider what Steve just described. You could not imagine experiencing something so humiliating in Thor's presence or the mockery that would inevitably follow. Thor openly shared the details of his sexual development with you on many occasions, often doing so as explicitly as possible. You listened with fascination, of course. But you were a far more private person by comparison. You decided that when your time came, you would exercise more discretion. And thus, you were relieved when your parents informed you that you and Thor would no longer be sharing rooms.

"The other kids teased me about it the rest of the summer," Steve continues. "Thing is, that probably doesn't seem terribly humiliating. But I was already getting beat up a lot. At the time…it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. As stupid as it sounds…I remember thinking that my life was over."

That doesn't actually sound stupid at all. There were many occasions during your own childhood when you endured something humiliating and became convinced that your life was _over_. And you had far more years left to live than Steve.

"Things...have been hard," he says.

"Is that right?"

"I tried to stay busy. I was okay for a while. And then I just...wasn't."

The conversation is becoming far more serious than you would like. You are now relieved that you are intoxicated. He appears to be seeking some sort of validation. Though you seriously doubt he wants or needs yours.

"You must be really desperate for commiseration if you're seeking mine," you mumble, looking down at the table.

"I have friends," he tells you. "I mean, I have people who care about me."

"Good for you."

"But they don't understand what I've been through or what I've lost."

You issue a derisive snort.

"And you think I do?"

"I know you do."

"I tried to kill you, remember?"

"Yeah," he says. "I remember."

He reaches for the bottle and puts the cap back on it. He slides the bottle back into his bag.

"I had a best friend once," he confides.

"Oh?"

"He tried to kill me...several times. We eventually got past it."

"See," you point out, "that would have been a _way_ more interesting story."

You wonder if he will scold you for your rudeness. But he just laughs.


	20. Chapter 20

_March 3, 2024_

Discharging Erik from the hospital is surprisingly uncomplicated. Dr. Chen's superior is feeling especially jovial and approves the request without any fuss. Altogether, the process takes less than an hour.

And you are almost disappointed. Because, all the while, you are fully expecting something to go wrong. Or perhaps you are merely hoping that it will.

When you go to retrieve Erik, he is wide awake. He was recently fed. You assume he was bathed not long after, because his hair is still slightly damp. He is staring blankly at the television, which is currently displaying a program about the preparation of soup. On the screen a woman is chopping vegetables with a sharp knife and dropping them into a pot of water.

You sit down on the edge of Erik's bed.

"Hey," you say, softly.

He appears hypnotized by the television. You seriously doubt he is genuinely interested in the program. It's more likely that he's drawn to the light and movement on the screen. You drag your fingers across the blankets until you locate the remote control.

Erik continues to gaze in the direction of the television, even after you shut it off.

"I'm here to take you home," you announce.

He turns to face you. You wait for him to digest what you said.

"Ho-me," he echoes, blankly.

"Yes."

He glances at the door, and then back at you.

"Var…för?"

You pause to clear your throat. You did not anticipate this inquiry. Therefore, you are unsure how to respond. You should certainly tell him something. But what? How much information is too much? Will he even understand? Will he even care?

"We're...going to try to make you better."

You detect a glimmer of recognition on his face, something resembling hope. Unfortunately, it is short lived.

"Men...ing...slös."

You do not know that word. Or is it words? With all the gaps in Erik's speech, it is difficult to tell. But naturally, you choose to interpret it as negative. Only because you are looking for a reason, any reason at all, to abandon this venture. Except that there aren't any reasons. And so, you are attempting to manufacture one.

"He doesn't want to go," you declare, when Dr. Chen enters the room.

He is undaunted by the news.

"Uh huh. Did you think he would?"

"Well, I'm not doing this against his will."

"His mental status is altered," Dr. Chen states. "It is normal for him to react negatively to anything that is outside of his regular routine."

"Taking him without his consent is akin to an abduction," you point out.

Dr. Chen puts his hands on his hips, adopting an uncharacteristically authoritative stance. Between his stature, and his over-sized lab coat, it isn't altogether convincing.

"He is no longer be capable of giving his consent," he asserts. "He needs you to make decisions for him. _This_ is one of those decisions.

You say nothing. You know all of this already. What you are feeling is not rational. Therefore, you cannot be won over with logic.

Dr. Chen sighs.

"In my culture, few things are more admirable than caring for one's elders."

You frown.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I...just want you to know that you have nothing to feel guilty about."

"I don't feel guilty," you insist.

Except that you do, and apparently you cannot be won over with sentiment either.

"Also, I'm not very good at encouraging people," he confesses.

"Agreed."

"Did he specifically say that he didn't want to go?"

You sneak a peek at Erik, who is blissfully ignorant that he is being discussed.

"No."

"Well, what _did_ he say?"

"I'm not really sure," you admit.

"If he's agitated," Dr. Chen proposes, "I can sedate him."

Your head snaps up at the suggestion.

"No…I won't have you subduing him with chemicals. It's barbaric."

"If we were sedating him for our own comfort, it _would_ be barbaric. This is for his comfort. Agitation is unpleasant. Sedation alleviates that."

You press your lips together, tightly.

"Mild sedation," he amends. "He won't be unconscious...just relaxed."

Dr. Chen is a fairly transparent individual. You suspect that some people find his bluntness to be off-putting. Unlike most Midgardians, he does not waste a lot of energy on subtext or adhering to social norms. Probably because he cares little what others think of him. You know not the source of his confidence. But it is evident that his concern for Erik is genuine. And his argument is sound. You fully intend to yield, as you already assured Jane of your participation in this ordeal. Yet, something inside you is stubbornly resisting.

You issue a hesitant nod.

"Yeah...alright."

Dr. Chen's prediction is correct, of course. He administers the sedative. Within seconds, Erik becomes more agreeable. He grins at you, as you transfer him into the wheelchair.

"Var…för?" he asks again.

"Home," you inform him. "I'm taking you home."

"Ho-me," he repeats, drowsily.

Erik kept only a handful of personal items at the hospital, most of which are articles of clothing. The hospital staff packs them all into transparent, plastic bags.

You wheel Erik down the hallway and onto the nearest lift and Dr. Chen follows, carrying the bags.

Jane meets you right outside of the hospital. Her car is parked directly in front of the main entrance. You transfer Erik from the wheelchair into the middle row of seats in Jane's car. You secure his seat belt. Dr. Chen hands you the bags of Erik's personal items, which you toss into the back seat.

Even though it is a warm day, the interior of Jane's car is climate controlled. Thus, the temperature inside it is considerably lower than the air outside. You cover Erik with a thin blanket that you brought from the house.

Dr. Chen collects the empty wheelchair. You watch him push it back into the building, before climbing into the car and pulling the door shut behind you.

The journey home is brief and the three of you are quiet for the duration. You sit beside Erik. He keeps looking at you and grinning, as if he is reacting to some sort of private joke. This is a good thing you are doing, relatively speaking. You should be happy. Regardless, anxiety churns within your gut, tightening and pulling at you from the inside. You force yourself to smile back.

When you arrive at the house, you carry Erik inside and take him directly to his room. With the sedation he is more subdued than usual. It bothers you that he's so docile. But you are glad that he is not agitated.

You lay Erik down in the center of his bed. The mattress is wide enough that he's unlikely to fall off the edge. You prop him up with a pillow. You stack more pillows on either side of him, in order to prevent him from slumping over. It's still early, yet. You and Steve won't be picking up the drugs or equipment for another few hours. He left to visit a friend in a nearby town and is due to return before then.

Jane brings the plastic bags to Erik's room. One contains only clothing. There are three shirts, two pair of pants, and several pair of socks, all of which you place back into the drawers of his dresser. The second bag contains Erik's medication, a plastic bottle, and packets of _thickening agent_. The third bag contains _sterile wipes_ and a package of the paper undergarments that Erik wears, due to his incontinence. You take all the items into the bathroom and arrange them on the shelves around the toilet.

Dr. Chen requested that you keep Erik hydrated. So, you fill the plastic bottle with water. After reading the directions on a packet of thickening agent, you pour the appropriate amount into the water. You seal the bottle and shake it until the contents are sufficiently combined. You offer the bottle to Erik. His expression conveys disinterest. So, you set it on the table next to his bed.

Erik perks up, suddenly.

"Toalett," he tells you.

His tone is urgent. Even if you did not know the meaning of that word, the look of alarm upon his face would be sufficient to convey the nature of his request. Erik ate lunch a few hours ago. It stands to reason that he might need to expel waste at some point, something with which he will definitely require assistance.

You scoop him up, as swiftly as you can. The pillows that were holding him in place are tossed about in the process. You carry Erik to his adjoining washroom. You position him over the toilet and guide his feet to the floor. His pants have only an elastic waistband and they come down with a gentle tug. The paper garment underneath them also has an elastic waistband and is just as easily dislodged.

Once you sit Erik down, your instinct is to leave the room. After all, this is a private affair for which no one should have an audience. But Erik has not the strength, nor the balance, to hold himself up. Presently, you are the only thing preventing him from falling. And so, you have no choice but to remain exactly where you are. As awkward as this is, you suppose it is better that he signaled you for help, as opposed to simply soiling himself.

You realize, now, how artfully you avoided thinking about it...the degree to which Erik's illness has compromised his dignity. You feel like a coward. And you begin to wonder how many other times in your life you have exercised such cold compartmentalization, in order to sidestep any aspects of reality that you found unpleasant or stressful. Only to become overwhelmed later on, when they reached critical mass.

In your youth, you were waited upon. By servants, no less. The irony of your situation is not lost on you. As you are currently playing nursemaid to an ailing Midgardian...a member of a species you were raised to view as grossly inferior. And you don't regret it. Not at all. But you wonder what Thor might think, if he could see you now. Whether he would this consider your actions to be admirable, or he would regard you as a fool.

Erik does his business fairly quickly, at least. He does not communicate with you, verbally. Yet, somehow, you are able to deduce that he is finished. You know very well that he lacks the dexterity to clean himself. And so, you must assist him with that, as well.

As you utilize the _sterile wipes_ you brought back from the hospital, you are reminded of the night you awoke to find Erik lying on the floor in his room. His pajama pants were soaked with urine, and his face stained red with tears of shame. You fully expect him to be embarrassed by what is taking place right now, humiliated even. But somehow, he remains oblivious.

You dispose of the wipes and flush the toilet. Erik's paper undergarment is still clean and dry. So, you pull it back up. You tug his sweatpants back into place and deposit him on the bed.

You return to the bathroom to wash your hands with _antibacterial soap_. While your superior immune system renders you impervious to Earth's opportunistic organisms, Erik's condition makes him particularly susceptible. The last thing you want is to compromise his health further, before you have a chance to heal him.

With no pillows in place to support him, Erik slumps over to one side. You collect all the pillows from the floor. One by one, you arrange them around Erik's body once more.

You decide that you are both in need of a distraction. You forego the television on Erik's dresser. While it might provide hours of mindless entertainment, it is not a significant source of intellectual stimulation. You scan the bookcase next to Erik's dresser, hoping to find some fictional literature. It contains mostly reference materials. You ultimately settle on _A Brief History of Time_ , by Stephen Hawking, one of Earth's most notable scientists.

You sit down on the bed beside Erik. His eyes seem to light up when he sees what you are holding, though it may be only your imagination.

The book opens with an anecdote about the origin of the universe, involving an old woman who believes that _the world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise._

"A tortoise," you muse, dramatically. "What utter nonsense."

Erik emits a small sound that resembles laughter. He is paying attention, to some extent. It's possible that he merely enjoys the timbre of your voice. You suppose it does not matter which.

You read through all of chapter one and over half of chapter two. You are in the middle of a paragraph about the _theory of relativity_ when you notice that Erik has fallen asleep.

You set the book down on the nearby table. You close your eyes and meditate on what you just read. Not because you found it particularly interesting, but because you prefer it to thinking about other things. Such as how weak Erik is, how dependent he is upon others, and how oblivious he is to his own decline.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a soft rapping. You open your eyes and see that Steve is standing in the doorway.

"I called your name," he offers. "You didn't respond."

"I must not have heard you," you mutter.

"Well, I'm ready to go when you are."

You glance at Erik. He is still asleep. He should not need anything for a while. You get to your feet slowly, so you do not disturb him.

By the time you and Steve reach the hospital, it is completely dark. Steve pulls Jane's vehicle around to the rear of the building, where there is a loading dock. The dock is comprised of a platform and a tall, slatted door, which opens vertically. Dr. Chen is already there, waiting. This is the first time you have seen him donning something other than his long, white coat. He is wearing a red t-shirt and jeans. Between his mannerisms and his attire, he could probably pass for a child. There are some concrete steps to the side of the platform. He bounces down them, playfully. He even skips the last two steps, both feet landing firmly on the asphalt.

You and Steve exit the vehicle and Dr. Chen hands you a slip of paper. It is the list of the drugs you are to gather from the pharmacy. Below the list of drugs is a series of five numbers, each comprised of seven digits.

"These are the locker codes," Dr. Chen explains.

The three of you climb the concrete stairs to the loading dock. Dr. Chen uses a remote to open the large, slatted door. You enter the building and walk down a long corridor, passing a number of doors along the way. Eventually, he stops in front of one of them.

"This door leads to the main lobby. I'm going to leave it unlocked for you. The interior entrance to the pharmacy is to your left. That door will be unlocked as well. All you have to do is walk through it, use the codes to open the lockers, and find all the drugs on the list."

"You mentioned a security guard," you remind him.

"There's one on the ground floor, but he has no reason to go into the pharmacy. So, it shouldn't be a problem. Steve and I will load the equipment into the car. Come back through this door and meet us at the loading dock when you are done."

You despise taking orders from anyone. But you sense that, at least in his little world, Dr. Chen is used to being in charge. And he is hardly a threat to you, or anyone else for that matter. You see no harm in humoring him for the time being.

You wait for them both to depart before rendering yourself invisible. You open the door and discover that the lobby is completely dark, except for a row of security lights along the floor. It is a short distance to the entrance of the pharmacy. The door is unlocked, just as Dr. Chen said it would be.

The lockers are at the rear of the pharmacy. They must be refrigerated, because you feel a rush of cold air each time you open one. Inside the lockers, there are shelves with hundreds of tiny boxes. The boxes bear labels that are all fairly similar. You scan them carefully, searching for the names of the medications on your list. It's tedious, though not difficult, as the drugs are arranged in alphabetical order.

You conjure yourself a satchel, into which you dump the boxes. You then store the satchel away with magic. You manage to complete the entire task in about twenty minutes and vacate the pharmacy without incident.

The door you came through earlier is unlocked. You pass through it and then walk down the long corridor, back to the loading dock. There, Steve and Dr. Chen are loading the last of the equipment into the vehicle.

Dr. Chen stops what he's doing and stares at you.

"Where are all the drugs?" he asks.

You hold out your arm. As the satchel materializes in your hand, you close your fist around it. You shake the bag, demonstratively.

"Fantastic," he responds, with delight. You half expect him to break into applause.

You and Steve climb into the car. As Steve drives around the building, you note that the interior of Jane's vehicle is tightly packed with items. The space where you would normally put your feet is lined with a stack of boxes.

You read the various labels on the boxes. _Latex gloves, hypodermic needles, sterile tubing._..you have no idea what these things are or why you need them.

When you arrive back the house, you find Jane at the kitchen table. She does not appear to be eating, but it smells as though she cooked something while you were gone. She notifies you that Erik is awake, that he drank about half of his water, and now he is watching television.

You run upstairs and confirm that the television in Erik's room is set to _The Weather Channel_ , which is running a program about tornadoes. He seems perfectly content.

You go back downstairs and help Steve and Jane unload the equipment. With all three of you working, it only takes a few trips to move everything upstairs to the hallway outside of Erik's bedroom. You do not unpack any of the boxes, however, as Dr. Chen advised you to leave them and allow him to set it all up in the morning.

You may be planning to heal Erik tomorrow, but he still has medication that he must take tonight. You recall Dr. Chen's graphic description of Erik's physical limitations. Erik can no longer chew or swallow his food properly. Anything he eats needs to be reduced to the consistency of custard. Thus, whatever medication he takes will have to be crushed up into his food.

During your recent trip to the grocery store, you purchased some yogurt for yourself. It is unflavored. Which is the way you like it, as you are not partial to the excess of sugar found in most Midgardian foods. But you fear that Erik will consider it bland. You don't want to risk him refusing it or spitting it out.

In the cupboard over the kitchen sink, there is a stack of plastic bowls. _Cereal bowls_ , Erik called them. You take one out and set it on the counter. You open the refrigerator to retrieve the container of yogurt. You notice a plate that is wrapped in foil...remnants of whatever food Jane prepared earlier, most likely. On the shelf in the door there is a bottle of honey that Erik used to flavor his tea. You uncap the bottle of honey and squirt some of it into the yogurt. You crush Erik's pills between your fingers and dump them in as well. Then you stir it all up with a spoon.

You take the bowl of yogurt upstairs. At the top of the stairs there is a narrow balcony that allows you to peer down into the living room. You linger there, for a moment. You were alone in this house for months. Now, there are three other people here. Tomorrow, there will be four. The sudden influx of energy is both exciting and overwhelming.

There are two sofas in the living room. For some reason, Steve is sitting on the coffee table. Which is not really an issue, as it is certainly sturdy enough to hold him. You simply find it strange that someone would choose to sit on a table when there are two perfectly good sofas nearby. He appears to be typing on his cell phone. You speculate that perhaps he is communicating with the friend he visited with earlier today.

Jane is sitting, cross-legged, on the shorter of the two sofas, with her computer in her lap. You watch her work for a few minutes. But when she glances up and catches your eye, you worry that she will interpret your attention as an invitation of some sort. You turn away, hastily, and continue into Erik's room.

You seat yourself on the edge of Erik's bed. You are close enough to him that he can reach you with minimal effort. He pats your arm and mumbles to himself.

You show him the bowl. He does not react, at first. You scoop up some of the yogurt with the spoon and put it directly in front of his face. Then, he opens his mouth, reflexively.

It takes Erik all of five bites to consume the yogurt in the bowl. You have no desire to go back downstairs, mostly because you fear that Jane will attempt to engage you in conversation. So, you take the bowl and spoon into the adjoining washroom. You rinse them off in the sink. As you set them down on the counter, you detect a faint creaking. You immediately ascertain that Jane is making her way up the stairs. When you exit the washroom, you find her standing at the foot of Erik's bed.

"I made pasta," she shares. "There's some left over in the fridge. Do you want me to heat it up for you?"

You lived with Erik for several years. During that time, he never once walked in on you, unannounced. But Jane's inquiry is casual, and you quickly conclude that this exchange will probably go more smoothly if you regard it as such.

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"You didn't eat lunch either."

"You're keeping track? I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered."

"I'm not _keeping track_..."

"You're awfully interested in my eating habits."

"Because you never eat."

"I eat. You've seen me eat."

"Barely," she counters. "You need nutrients, just like everyone else."

" _Just like everyone else_ ," you repeat, mockingly. "Did you come all the way up here just to insult me?"

"Am I wrong?"

"Hmm...how are we defining _wrong_ for the purposes of this conversation?"

"Organisms need food. You are an organism. Ergo..."

"I'll eat something in the morning. Satisfied?"

She must be, because she changes the subject.

"Are you sleeping in here?" she asks.

You shrug.

"I doubt I'll sleep at all. Care to comment on that as well?"

"Dr. Chen is going to be here at seven o'clock."

"So?"

She gestures at the television with her thumb.

"So...that's pretty early. Erik needs to rest."

"Point taken."

You walk over and make an exaggerated gesture of shutting off the television.

She doesn't budge.

"You really should get some sleep as well," she advises.

"Yes, Mother."

"Now, _there's_ a job I wouldn't want."

"And yet, here you are to feed me and tuck me in."

She sighs and glares at you.

"Thank you for looking in on us," you tell her. You wave your hand, dismissively.

You are grateful when she finally takes the hint.

You close the door to Erik's room. You briefly check his paper undergarment, and are relieved to find that it is still dry. Then you lie down on the bed beside him and shut off the light. You could return to your own room to read or mess about on your cell phone. But Jane is far less likely to disturb you if you remain here, in the dark.

Erik falls asleep right away. You have far too much on your mind to do so. It's not just the presence of the other people in the house, although that is certainly a factor. If Erik needs anything during the night, you want to be able to tend to him promptly, before Jane or Steve are any the wiser.

You stay awake for hours, but Erik doesn't stir. Whatever medication you gave him is sufficient to subdue him until morning.


	21. Chapter 21

_I'm sorry it took me so long to update this. Things have been very busy. For the record, this story is NOT abandoned. I have already written the remaining chapters. They just need to be edited._

* * *

 _March 3, 2024_

At some point during the night, you do manage to fall asleep. It's not a deep sleep, but one comprised of a series of abrupt fits and starts. Numerous times you dream that either Jane or Steve are entering your rooms, unannounced, while you are in the process of undressing yourself. You have always valued your privacy. But you've not experienced such dreams before. These you find truly disturbing. You wonder whether the mere presence of multiple people in the house is sufficient to trigger a subconscious paranoia.

By five o'clock in the morning, you are wide awake. While the sun has not yet fully risen, its first rays of light are enough to illuminate the room. You glance over and see that Erik's eyes are wide open. You also notice that around his lap there is a portion of the blanket that appears darker than the rest. You reach for the lamp beside the bed and turn it on. You peel back the blanket and confirm that Erik's pants are soaked through.

Certainly, you knew this was a possibility. It was just easier to pretend that it wasn't. The unmistakable hint of fear in Erik's eyes would likely go undetected by the casual observer. It is almost as though some part of him is genuinely worried about your reaction. You recall, all too clearly, that night you found him collapsed on the floor beside his bed, his tears of shame, how he couldn't even look at you. Whatever this is, however inconvenient, it is definitely outside of his control. Thus, do your best to conceal your frustration.

"I guess we'd better sort it," you tell him.

You climb off of the bed, carefully. First, you go to the adjoining washroom and start the shower. You found that it often takes several minutes for the water in the house to become warm. Something Erik attributed to the structure's age.

In the washroom there is a chair that Erik purchased for himself, shortly after becoming ill. As far as you know, he only used it a handful of times. Because it was not long after that he relocated to the hospital. But now he is back home. And you hope that allowing him to sit upon the chair will make this slightly easier.

You remove the pillows that are supporting Erik and set them aside. You gather the blanket by its dry edges, roll it into a ball and toss it in the corner. All the while, you are being as quiet as possible. The last thing you want is to attract any attention from the other people in the house.

Erik sits, passively, as you gingerly remove his wet garments. Which you deposit atop the soiled blanket. You are pleased to discover that the sheet underneath him is still dry...one less thing to concern yourself with.

You carry Erik to the washroom. You guide him to the floor, so that he is in a standing position. With one hand, you keep him steady. With your other hand, you remove his saturated paper undergarment and drop it into the waste bin. You lift him over the rim of the bathtub and set him into the chair.

In your mind, you pictured this being a simple task. In reality, it is anything but. You have never bathed anyone but yourself and bathing Erik is ridiculously tedious. You know not how hospital staff managed it. You now have some idea why they originally insisted on only doing so every few days.

Erik isn't heavy, at least not for you. But he is tall. And thus, it is extremely awkward to balance his dead weight on the chair, while he is naked and covered with soap and water. Especially since he is constantly clinging to you, and you are struggling to avoid being pulled into the tub. Altogether, the process takes you nearly half an hour.

You wrap Erik in two large towels and lay him down across the bed. You let him air dry for a few minutes before getting him dressed. You then drag him into a sitting position and lean him against the headboard. You prop him up with a few pillows and arrange the remaining ones around him.

Of course, now, you are soaked.

You open the door to Erik's room very slowly. The interior of the house is still mostly dark. The soft snoring of your guests is emanating from the living room below. You creep out into the hallway and retrieve some dry apparel for yourself -a fresh pair of jeans and a green, short-sleeved t-shirt with the word HEJ printed on it. You open the cabinet where the linens are kept, grab new blankets for his bed and slip back into his room, pulling the door shut behind you.

You toss your dry clothing atop Erik's dresser. Then, you drape the clean blankets across his bed. Once Erik is properly situated, you peel off your own wet clothing and fling it into the pile with the other soiled articles.

You sneak a peek up at Erik before removing your undergarments. It is strange to be nude in his presence…or anyone's presence, for that matter. You stopped undressing in front of your family long before reaching the age of majority. He's not even watching you. He is gazing at the window. You realize that he, himself, was naked before you just minutes ago. And yet, somehow this feels completely different. You clothe yourself, hastily, and add your own soiled items to the ever growing pile in the corner.

The clock reads 6:07. It is finally daylight, outside. You hear the sound of someone walking up the stairs and approaching your room. You know that Jane is coming. Her knock on the door is still jarring.

"What is it?" you call, immediately. Any delay is likely to elicit suspicion.

You hear her muffled voice.

"I just wanted to make sure you guys were up."

"Yes, we're up," you confirm.

"I'm going to make some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"

You do not want eggs right now, or anything really. But you did promise Jane that you would eat something this morning. And you also know that it is in your best interest to consume something substantial before attempting to heal Erik, something beyond mere _junk food_. Were your mother here, now, she would almost certainly insist upon it.

Erik always scrambled your eggs. That's what he called it, _scrambling_. Which is an accurate term, you suppose. As a child, you consumed eggs from various fowl, though they were never _scrambled_. They were typically poached or boiled. It's doubtful that anyone could draw any sort of conclusions about you, based upon such information. Still, Jane is constantly prying and digging. And after spending the night dreaming of all the ways in which your privacy can be violated, you are strangely compelled to withhold details about yourself, no matter how trivial.

"I have no preference," you return, flippantly.

"Okay," she calls.

She jogs back down the stairs and begin moving about in the kitchen. Erik will need to eat something as well, you realize. He can most likely consume eggs as well, as long as they are thoroughly pulverized. If not, you can always give him more yogurt.

Ten minutes later, Jane enters the room without knocking. She is carrying a tray. On it are two plates of food, one large and one small, a spoon and a fork. You groan, inwardly, when you note that the larger plate holds not only eggs, but two pieces of toasted bread and four apple slices. The smaller plate has a blob of something yellow right in the center.

"I mashed up some eggs for him," she explains, setting the tray on the table by Erik's bed. "I hope that's alright."

"Ah."

She lingers, examining you both.

"Why is his hair wet?" she asks.

"Hmm…I don't suppose you'd believe that it was raining indoors..."

"Did you give him a shower?"

You purse your lips briefly.

"That is a definite possibility."

She gestures towards the pile of soiled linens in the corner.

"Did he have an accident?"

"Your deductive reasoning skills positively astound."

"Is that a _yes_?"

You grit your teeth, in order to stop yourself from saying something truly caustic.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this," you inform her, "but you don't really need to know _everything."_

She smirks, amused by your frustration with what she probably thinks is a perfectly reasonable inquiry. She picks up Erik's empty water bottle and walks it into the washroom. You hear her filling it at the sink. She walks out, with a packet of the thickener you brought home from the hospital.

"How much of this stuff do I use?"

You hold your hand.

"Just give it to me," you demand.

She clutches the packet to her chest.

"I can do it. Just tell me how much."

You sigh.

"About half."

She nods and pours half of the packet into the bottle. She shakes it up and hands it to you. You present it to Erik, but he shows no interest. So, you set it on the end table beside the tray.

"Dr. Chen's going to be here in fifteen minutes," she announces.

"Thank you," you retort. "I had completely forgotten how to tell time."

"Are you nervous about today?"

"Why would I be nervous?"

"You're not your usual, charming self."

You force a smile.

"I'm as charming as ever."

"If you say so," she counters, dryly.

"I _do_ say so."

She walks over to the corner of the room, and hurriedly gathers up the soiled items from the floor. She is out the door before you can protest.

"Enjoy your breakfast," she calls, over her shoulder.

You wait for her to go back downstairs before taking a bite of your eggs. The texture is exactly what you expected, if not slightly fluffier. The flavor, however, is incredibly bland. It is missing the sea salt, dill and ground pepper that Erik always added.

You set your plate back down onto the tray and reach for Erik's.

"Are you hungry?" you ask him.

He does not reply. You scoop up a small portion of eggs with the spoon. Erik's eyes light up a bit at the prospect of food. He opens his mouth and takes a bite.

"Hmph," he says, upon tasting the eggs.

"Bland, no?" you comment. "I think we shall have to fire the cook."

Erik does not laugh at your joke, of course. But he must actually be hungry. Because he consumes the remainder of the eggs. When he is finished, you set his plate aside and offer him the water bottle. He takes a few reluctant sips and turns his head away.

You set the bottle down and reach for your own plate. It occurs to you that you could just have easily instructed Jane on how to prepare your eggs. She did, after all, ask you in advance. Of which she would no doubt remind you, if you saw fit to voice your complaint.

You shovel the eggs into your mouth, rather inelegantly. You figure the less time you spend tasting them, the better. You leave the apples and toast untouched.

Dr. Chen arrives precisely at 7 o'clock. There's a predictable bustle of energy as he enters the house and exchanges pleasantries with Jane and Steve. Not long after, there is the thumping of feet, making their way up the stairs.

"You didn't eat your breakfast," Jane points out, as she enters the room again. Dr. Chen is right behind her.

You shrug.

"I ate the eggs."

"You didn't eat the toast and applies," she adds. She sounds genuinely disappointed.

"Oh no," you gasp, dramatically. "What are you going to do about it?"

"You don't think you need to eat?"

"I'm sure the eggs will be enough," Dr. Chen chimes in. "Even so, I was planning to hang a banana bag before we get started."

You know that bananas are a Midgardian fruit. You tasted them once and did not enjoy their flavor.

"I'm not eating any bananas," you state, firmly, "let alone an entire bag."

"It's not a _bag_ of bananas," he corrects. "It's a bag of fluid filled with vitamins and minerals. We call it a banana bag because the fluid inside is yellow, like a banana."

"Well, I'm not drinking anything either."

"Don't worry. You won't have to."

You have no idea what that means. But Jane clearly must. She and Dr. Chen exchange a brief glance. After which she collects the plates from the bedside table and carries them back downstairs.

Dr. Chen doesn't waste any time. He begins unpacking all the boxes. He sets most of the equipment up on the opposite side of the room. He is hyper-focused on the task. But as soon as he completes it, he directs his attention to you.

"Okay," he says, clapping his hands together. "So, how are you going to do this?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I meant will you be sitting or lying down, or what?"

You look at Erik. Healing requires some degree of proximity. The greater the proximity, the more effective the healing. During your previous attempts you were trying to be covert. And thus, you did not get nearly as close to Erik as you probably should have. This time, however, you have no need to disguise your intentions.

You sit down on the bed and slide over next to Erik. You shuffle the pillows around a bit so that two of them are supporting your back. Once you are still, Dr. Chen approaches you.

"Are you comfortable?"

"I suppose."

"Good, I need to examine you."

You stare back at him, dumbly. You fold your arms across your chest.

"So, examine me."

"I generally like to get verbal consent before I do that."

"Did I not just give you my consent?"

Suddenly, he takes a step forward and reaches for your arm. You bring your hands up to defend yourself.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" you demand.

"I'm examining you."

"With your hands?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid that's how we do it around these parts. Hence the need for consent."

"What exactly are you hoping to find?"

"To begin with, I need to check your vital signs."

"Why? I'm not the one who's afflicted."

"I need baseline numbers for you. I also want to draw some blood and start an IV."

"You want to draw my blood?" you huff. "Whatever for?"

The concept itself is not foreign to you. Asgardian healers sometimes drew fluids from the infirm, for diagnostic purposes. But Midgardian techniques are archaic by comparison, as they apparently have not yet mastered the ability to achieve such ends without the use of sharp objects or tubes.

You have a vague memory of S.H.I.E.L.D. taking samples of both blood and hair when they apprehended you in New York, twelve years ago. You definitely recall the government officials taking samples of your DNA when they apprehended you the second time. They cited it as a requirement for your continued stay on Earth. On both occasions, they used a vessel in your neck. It was a fairly unpleasant process, though hardly intolerable. The way they handled you, you did not get the impression that they were the least bit concerned about your comfort.

Dr. Chen's lips quiver a bit. He clears his throat before continuing.

"Your body chemistry is unique. I don't want to be struggling to make heads or tails of it if something happens to you later. This way I can establish a complete medical profile for you in advance."

"Just what is it that you expect is going to happen to me?"

"I don't know. That's the point. These are uncharted waters. I have limited data. Therefore, I have to assume that anything is possible. The more information I accumulate in advance, the more control we have over the outcome."

His reasoning is sound. You simply wish his ends could be achieved via less invasive measures.

"Fine."

"So...I'm going to touch you now," he declares, theatrically.

He slides one hand behind your back. The other, he presses against your chest. You feel yourself tensing up, instinctively.

"Just breathe normally," he orders.

"I _am_ breathing normally," you claim, even though you know full well that you are not.

He chuckles.

"Okay, um...just breathe in and out like you normally would."

You search the room for something to distract you. You count the knobs on the dresser. Two drawers on top. One...two. Three in the middle. Three...four...five. Three on the bottom. Six...seven...eight. It is a tactic you utilized frequently as a child, whenever you found yourself growing overwhelmed or afraid. Count the chairs at the banquet table. Count the stones on the wall in the great hall. How many green things? How many blue? How many different shapes in the pattern on Mother's gown?

Finally, Dr. Chen removes his hands.

He reaches for your wrist and pinches it, gently.

"Resting pulse is fifty-two," he says, to no one in particular.

His laptop computer is open nearby. He walks back and forth to it, typing the keys to record the data. You can't help noticing that he talks to himself as he works, similarly to the way that Erik used to do.

He retrieves a tool which he presses to your forehead for about three seconds. The tool beeps. He reads the digital display, aloud.

"Your temperature is 99.8 degrees. Is that normal for you?"

You have no idea what would be considered _normal_ for you, at least not in terms of numerical value. Asgardians did not use the same units of measurement that Midgardians do.

"I don't know what you mean."

"The average human body temperature is about 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. You're running a bit warmer. I just need to be sure that this is normal for you."

Your mother made a similar observation when you were a child, that you were warmer than other children. She often stated that you almost seemed to be giving off heat. You thought little of it at the time.

"I couldn't say."

"Well, how do you feel right now?"

"I feel fine."

"Alright, then. I'll consider this _normal_."

He walks away from you and assembles some more equipment. He arranges the items on a tray and puts on a pair of latex gloves.

"I'm going to draw your blood now," he explains.

"Oh, I do hope you remembered your leeches."

"Ooh...sorry. I'm fresh out. But I do have this lovely syringe with an exquisitely sharp needle attached to it."

You are curious when he reaches for your arm.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"I just told you, I'm drawing your blood."

You gesture to your throat.

"I thought you had to draw from here."

"From your jugular? I'm not a sadist. Besides, you've got a perfectly palpable antecubital."

"A what?" you return, confused.

He taps the soft skin on the bend of your arm, demonstratively.

"Right here, see?"

He winds a strip of elastic around your bicep to constrict the blood flow to your arm.

He's very quick, and surprisingly gentle. You notice that the needle he is using is much thinner than the ones used on you before.

"This is a titanium needle," he shares. "It's much stronger than the stainless steel ones I would normally use on patients."

The needle must be adequately sharp. Because it pierces your skin easily. While Dr. Chen is filling the vials with your blood, he removes the strip of elastic. He caps the syringe and deposits it into a red, plastic box. Then, the removes his gloves and disposes of them in a separate plastic container.

"Okay," he says, "I need you to take off your shirt."

Surely, you heard him incorrectly.

"I'm sorry…what?"

"I need you to take off your shirt," he repeats. "I want to start an IV and I need bare skin to place the EKG leads."

You scan your surroundings. Erik's eyes are closed. Jane and Steve are somewhere, downstairs. You have no reason to refuse his request, other than the fact that you would rather not oblige.

"Is there a problem?" he asks.

"Well...we barely know each other."

"Oh, people take their clothes off in front of me all the time. It's one of the many benefits of being a physician."

"Aren't you a neurologist?"

"Seriously, though...off with the shirt."

Reluctantly, you peel off your shirt and set it on the table nearby.

Dr. Chen dons a fresh pair of latex gloves and proceeds to insert a needle into your wrist. This one looks different. It's thicker and longer and fastened to a flat piece of blue plastic, which he tapes to your skin.

He retrieves a metal stand, from which he hangs a bag of transparent, yellow fluid. This must be the aforementioned _banana bag_. He attaches one end of a long, narrow tube to the bag and the other end to the needle on your wrist.

"This will be empty in about twenty minutes," he mentions, casually. "So, you'll probably have to pee before we get started

You grimace at his bluntness. Humans are so fascinated by their own bodily functions. They speak about them so openly as one would the weather.

"Good to know."

"Unless, of course, you want me to cath you," he mutters.

"What?"

He shakes his head.

"Just a joke. Never mind."

Dr. Chen approaches you with a series a small, rainbow colored discs. He sits on the edge of the bed and begins attaching them to your chest. You try to relax and retreat into your mind. It's peculiar having someone so close to you, touching you this way. And you are so distracted that you don't hear Jane making her way up the stairs again.

She enters the room, and her entire demeanor changes, instantly. She doesn't look away, either. She just keeps staring.

You scowl at her.

"Do you mind?"

She smiles, awkwardly, her mouth hanging open.

"I'm...um...sorry."

You do not appreciate being laughed at and are naturally defensive.

"Does my appearance amuse you?"

"No, not at all."

"And yet, you're laughing."

"I'm not laughing _at_ you."

"But you _are_ laughing."

"I..." she begins. "It's...you wouldn't understand."

"You believe your sense of humor to be so complex that it is beyond my comprehension."

"No..."

"Then, explain yourself."

She shifts her body weight to one hip. Her face becomes flushed and pink. She seems shy, as though she has suddenly lost the ability to articulate her thoughts. You have never seen her behave this way. It is fairly disconcerting.

"I just...you're more chiseled than I expected."

"Chiseled?" you echo.

Dr. Chen grins, as he affixes the last of the discs to your chest.

"Relax, bro. It's a compliment."

Somehow, you doubt it. You're not _chiseled_ , and you know it. Thor was chiseled. Steve is chiseled. You physique may be superior to the average Midgardian. It's certainly vastly superior to Dr. Chen's. But by Asgardian standards, you would barely be considered adequate.

"I'm not your _bro_ ," you respond, gruffly.

"Of course not," he replies. "Sorry."

"Are you almost through?"

"With this? Yes. But I still have to attach the EEG leads."

As soon as he finishes applying the discs to your chest, you reach for your shirt. Dr. Chen stops you.

"It's really better if you just leave it off. If you get cold later, we can give you a blanket."

You sigh and slouch against the pillows.

"Brilliant."

Jane sits on the other side of the bed next to Erik. She pretends to be preoccupied but every few seconds she peeks at you and turns away whenever the two of you make eye contact.

Dr. Chen approaches you with another handful of discs. These are a bit smaller, though they are also comprised of various colors.

"I suppose now you want me to take off my pants," you quip.

He frowns.

"Not unless that's where you keep your brain."

"It's not."

"These are going on your head."

"That does make more sense."

Dr. Chen places a number of discs around your hairline. He uses tiny, plastic clips to affix the remainder of the discs to the top of your head.

"Now what?" you inquire.

"Now, you just have to sit tight while I get Erik ready."

You reach for a nearby blanket and use it to cover yourself.

You watch Jane help Dr. Chen attach all the appropriate equipment to Erik. As luck would have it, Erik's pajama shirt unbuttons in the front. So, there is no need to remove it. But Jane does roll up his sleeves to accommodate the IV.

Dr. Chen hangs a bag of transparent, yellow fluid from a stand on the other side of the bed and attaches it to Erik's IV.

Just as predicted, twenty minutes have passed, and your bag is now empty.

"Do you need to pee?" he inquires, right in front of Jane no less. "If so, you should do it now."

"I'm fine," you gripe.

"You just rapidly infused a liter of fluid. You don't need to go to the bathroom?"

"Nope."

"We don't know how long this procedure is going to take. You might not have a chance to go for a while."

"If you must know, my body absorbs and utilizes 90 percent of everything it consumes. Which thankfully results in…minimal waste. So, thank you very much for your concern. But, no…I don't need to _go_."

"Fascinating."

"Not really."

"I'd love to discuss that in more depth sometime."

"And yet, I wouldn't."

He is unfazed.

"Suit yourself."

He brings his laptop computer over to the bed. The screen is divided into two sections, one for you and one for Erik. On each side of the screen there are two graphs. Dr. Chen points to one of the graphs, which depicts a series of lines.

"This is your EEG," he explains. "These are beta waves, which indicate that you're alert and engaged. That would be good, normally. But my theory is that this healing process will require continuous delta wave activity."

"Delta waves," you repeat. "And those are different, how?"

"Well, structurally they are far more elongated. Delta waves indicate a state of deep relaxation."

"I would need to reach such a state in order to achieve shared consciousness with Erik."

"That's what I figured. I'd like to start by giving you both a mild sedative…"

"I don't need a sedative."

"So, you're confident that you can reach a proper state of relaxation without it."

You're not confident, entirely. But you are insulted by the suggestion that you require chemicals to perform this task.

"Provided that we eliminate all distractions."

"What sort of distractions?"

Though Erik's home is located in a semi-remote area, there is still a great deal of ambient noise. Something can always be heard in the distance...a dog barking, a car alarm, or the constant hum of vehicle traffic. You have yet to encounter the sort of silence here that you could experience on Asgard. Normally, such sounds would simply fade into the background. But when one is aiming for a deep state of meditation, even the smallest sounds might disturb the process.

"Silence would be preferable."

"I can't guarantee silence," Dr. Chen remarks. "But I think I may have something better."

You are skeptical.

"What could possibly be better than silence?"

He opens one of his many boxes and pulls out a small, cylindrical object.

"This is a wireless speaker," he continues. "I mostly use it for playing music...but it also has a white noise setting."

He pushes a button and the object is activated. It begins emitting a sound, not unlike a fierce wind blowing. It is strangely agreeable. And if played loudly enough, it would be sufficient to drown out any ambient sound.

"I also require darkness," you add.

"Well, how dark do you need it to be?"

"Darker than this."

"You couldn't have mentioned this sooner?"

You shrug.

"You didn't ask."

"Maybe we could cover the window," Jane suggests, "with sheets or blankets."

"That is an acceptable solution," you respond.

Jane dashes out of the room and down the stairs. You can hear muffled voices. Not long after, she and Steve enter the room together. Jane is carrying a stack of folded blankets. Steve is armed with a strange contraption that resembles a weapon. You recall seeing it before, hanging from a hook in the garage.

He sees you eyeing the item in his hands.

"It's a staple gun," he provides.

You nod. So, it is a weapon. But it must also serve as a tool as well. Jane and Steve each take one end of the blanket. There are several loud _thunks_ as Steve uses the contraption to affix the blanket to the wall around the window. The material is thick enough that, as soon as the blanket is held in place, the room is almost completely dark. Now, the only light is coming from Dr. Chen's computer.

When Steve determines that he is no longer needed, he goes back downstairs.

While Dr. Chen administers a sedative to Erik via his IV, you shift yourself a bit, trying to find a position that is comfortable. You roll to your side, ever so slightly, just enough that you can reach Erik's head. You place your hand on it, loosely, so as not to disrupt the tiny discs.

"Are you ready?" Dr. Chen asks you.

"As I'll ever be."

He and Jane move to the other side of the room. Jane activates the wireless speaker and it begins emitting _white noise_.

It is dark enough in the room that you cannot determine whether Erik's eyes are open or closed. But you can feel his pulse via the vein in his temple. He is relaxed and ready. As you concentrate on the rhythm of his heart, your own pulse slows.

You can sense all the people in the house. They each possess rather strong personalities and their presence, alone, gives off its own vibration. You should be able to shut it out. _Should_ being the operative term. But for some reason, you can't.

You quickly conclude that this is going to be far more difficult than you anticipated. During your past attempts, Erik was still lingering just below the surface. It was easy to find him there. But now he seems so far away. You are unsure how to reach him.

"It's not working," you grumble.

Dr. Chen pipes up.

"His EEG shows consistent delta wave activity. Which should be optimal for..."

"It's not him," you interrupt. "It's me."

He sounds surprised.

"Oh."

You've become complacent, living on this planet. What you really need is to focus, to tap into a part of yourself that you allowed to remain dormant for far too long. Between that and the fact that you have an audience, you are struggling to reach a proper state of meditation.

"I can't do this with the two of you staring at me."

"We're not staring," Jane says, softly.

Dr. Chen scolds you.

" _This_ is why I wanted to give you a sedative."

"I don't need a damned sedative."

"Alright...what can I do?"

"Absolutely nothing."

He turns to Jane.

"Dr. Foster..."

"What are you looking at her for?" you snap. "There's nothing she can do either."

Jane doesn't say anything, for once. She comes over to the bed and kneels beside it. When she is close enough, you can see that she has something in her hand. She holds it out to you, indicating that you should take it.

You recognize the object immediately. It's the tiny glass bottle that holds your lavender tincture.

It is so simple an idea that you are bothered that you did not think of it yourself. You know not when she fetched it or what possessed her to do so in the first place.

She just smiles and stands up.

"Why don't we both step out," she suggests to Dr. Chen.

"I still need to monitor them," he reminds her.

"I know. It won't be long. Just let Loki get...started. Then, you can come back in and do your thing."

You recognize that voice. It's higher and smoother than the one she normally uses. Its purpose is to get people to do things that they don't want to do.

And it works. Dr. Chen sighs. He hesitates a moment, but ultimately complies. Maybe she really is a witch.

You wait for them to leave before opening the tiny vial. The scent is highly concentrated and somewhat overpowering. Thus, you require very little to benefit from its effects. You waft the fragrance towards your nose and inhale it, deeply. Then, you recap the vial and set it on the bedside table. You take well over a minute to find a comfortable position. You close your eyes and lay your hand upon Erik's head. With the tips of your fingers, you detect the beat of his heart, and once again your own pulse follows suit.

Now, you at least have a starting point, somewhere to begin. You aren't just groping around in the darkness. You picture Asgard, all the little places you spent alone, rapt in thought, mastering your magic. You give in to the weightlessness and eventually you feel something pulling. And you drift...further and further out into the black, empty space that exists between souls.


	22. Chapter 22

In which shit gets complicated. This is a stressful chapter that references death and violence.

* * *

 _March 3, 2024_

At first glance, Erik's mind appears both dark and empty. The memories you encounter are not in any sort of order. They are out of context, floating freely and randomly, tethered to nothing. There's no rhyme or reason, no up or down, and it is difficult to make any sense of it at all.

Your previous attempts to venture past this point were unsuccessful. Somehow, you always ended up losing yourself to the chaos, draining your own resources and waking up to discover that you had once again failed.

But now you have a safety net, someone keeping watch from the outside. And thus, you plunge deeply into Erik's past, as far back as you can go. You wade through the fragments until they get clearer and brighter.

Eventually, you see a young Erik before you. He is nothing at all like the man you know. He wears a constant scowl. He is brooding and withdrawn. He spends his time alone, away from others, buried in books.

Erik's home life is dreary. He is an only child. His mother is a superficial woman. She busies herself with dinner parties and gatherings and other domestic exploits, all designed to distract herself from own misery and lack of purpose. Erik's father, too, is somewhat superficial. He is almost entirely absent from his son's life. He exists mostly in still images and anecdotes told by other family members. Erik's mother smothers him with affection in order to compensate for his father's absence. But even at his tender age, Erik sees through her charade.

Erik is a polite child. He does what is expected of him, though he does not have many friends. He is highly intelligent, and school is not nearly challenging enough for him. He does not connect easily with others. He cannot relate to their interests. He does not wish to run about or do the things that other boys are doing. He wants to read. He wants to build things, and he wants to take things apart. Sometimes he is mocked by his peers. He tries to laugh along with them, even though he does not understand their jokes. He does not assert himself. He accepts that he is strange and that strange is apparently bad.

Things change for Erik as he emerges from adolescence. He is an attractive young man. Though boys his age still want little to do with him, girls his age begin to show great interest. He continues to feel awkward, but he realizes that being desired by the opposite sex means he has an opportunity to fit in. Nevertheless, due to his limited social experience Erik's judgement is poor. He seeks validation from the wrong sort of people. He gets into mischief and experiments with mind altering substances. He stays out late. Sometimes, he does not come home at all. He lies to his parents over and over again, daring them to intervene. But they are far too consumed with their own woes to take notice. As Erik grows older he comes to resent them both.

Erik travels to England to study. He thinks the separation from his family and the change in scenery will do him good. Suddenly, he is surrounded by people who are more like himself, who are in pursuit of knowledge and who share his specific interests. He is finally in his element. Amidst it all, there is always a woman on his arm. Erik is frivolous with his affections. He shares a bed with many young females. He enjoys the constant attention, though he forms no emotional attachment.

Several years into his studies, Erik learns that a female classmate is carrying his child. When he shares the news with his parents, he expects disapproval. But they are indifferent, neither pleased nor displeased. Erik, too, is somewhat ambivalent about the matter. A wedding follows shortly, a quaint, informal affair. Erik cares for his bride's well-being but he is not in love with her. He marries out of duty and obligation, because he believes it is the right thing to do, and because it is what is expected of him.

As the baby's arrival draws closer, Erik's wife pressures him to abandon his academic pursuits and obtain full time employment. He agrees to procure a job but refuses to discontinue his studies. Money is scarce and is a constant source of conflict between them. Erik does not know how a husband or a father should behave. He imitates that which was modeled for him by his own father and spends the bulk of his time away from home. Outwardly, he claims that providing financially is the best way to care for his family. Inwardly, he knows that he is simply avoiding that which is unpleasant. He is unsatisfied with his life. He feels trapped. He blames his wife for his unhappiness.

When Lars is born, he appears perfectly healthy. Erik likes the idea of having a son. He feels validated by the child's existence. Finally, there is someone out there who will be just like him.

Two years later, when Lars contracts some sort of infection, physicians detect a structural abnormality in his heart. They caution that Lars will be fine for the time being, as long as he does nothing to exert himself. But without a heart transplant, his life span will be dramatically shortened.

The physicians are unable to find a donor heart that is suitable for Lars. The child continues to contract infections and his health steadily declines. Erik begins to pull away from his son. He is reluctant to become attached to Lars, because he knows the child's days are numbered. He is terrified of experiencing genuine loss. He convinces himself that his wife has the situation well at hand and that his involvement would only complicate things. As the boy's illness worsens, tensions build, and Erik spends more and more time away from home. When his son passes and his wife petitions to end their marriage, Erik feels relieved.

Erik relocates to the United States to complete his education. He treats his marriage and his son's death as no more than a temporary setback. But over the next few years, he becomes consumed with guilt and self-loathing. He is angry, depressed and withdrawn. He drinks more and more, in a vain attempt to avoid coping with his own emotions. He instigates conflict with others, which often escalates to violence. When an academic mentor warns him that he is in danger of losing everything he worked for, Erik seeks assistance from mental health practitioners. They help him to understand his pain. He begins to mature and learns to form meaningful connections. He realizes that he has no interest in romantic relationships and accepts that there are other ways to draw fulfillment from life.

Erik eventually becomes a professor of Theoretical Astrophysics at a university in West Virginia where he acquires many good friends, such as Bruce Banner, and both Jane and her father.

As you grow closer to the present, portions of Erik's subconscious that were previously dark or empty no longer appear so. The details are still limited. But there is at least something there to work with.

You work quickly and diligently. It is not until you encounter yourself in Erik's mind, that you come to an abrupt halt.

It's a peculiar thing…to see yourself through someone else's eyes. Because you can speculate all you wish about what others think of you. You never actually expect to know for sure.

You witness yourself arriving on Earth with the intention of acquiring the Tesseract. Erik is fascinated by you, initially. He does not believe he has any reason to be afraid. When he hears that you are the brother of Thor, he assumes that you are a friend, someone who can be trusted. He is mistaken, of course. You abduct him and flee. For nearly a week, he is under your control. During that time, like so many others, he answers directly to you. Unlike the others, however, he asks so many questions. Though his will is not his own, his curiosity is genuine. He wants to learn. He wants to understand. He wants to know everything that can be known.

You did not realize the extent to which he was affected by your short encounter. When Erik's connection to the Mind Stone is broken, he is left disoriented and confused. He experiences nightmares and insomnia. He in engages in erratic behavior and is temporarily institutionalized. It occurs to you that you now have the power to delete such memories from Erik's mind. Anything you might have done to hurt him...any reason he might have to think poorly of you. It could all be eradicated right here and now. It would be so easy.

It would also be wrong. These memories do not belong to you, and they are not yours to take.

The next few years of Erik's life are spent regaining his sanity. Wishing to uncomplicate his life, he leaves S.H.I.E.L.D. They award him a generous monetary settlement for his troubles. His life returns to normal, somewhat. He moves to Solvay and takes a position at the university in Syracuse. His time is divided between teaching and research. He purchases a home, the first one he has ever owned. He begins to feel safe again. He asks Jane to join his research group at the university and she accepts. He invites her to live with him, but she says she prefers to live alone and rents an apartment that is closer to the campus.

Erik's life is fairly uneventful until Thanos comes. He is consulted, briefly, after which he is invited to an underground compound for protection. He declines the offer, stating only that if he is going to die he would prefer to do so at home. The war against Thanos does not last very long. Erik is nowhere near any combat zone. When the snap takes place, the direct effect upon him is minimal. Through the living room window, Erik watches as distant aircraft fall from the sky and crash into the ground below. He calls Jane immediately to ensure that she is still alive. He spends the rest of the day on his phone and computer, reaching out to friends and colleagues, trying to ascertain who survived and who did not.

Erik is intrigued to learn of your survival from Bruce Banner, especially since he believed you were already dead. Over the phone, Bruce describes the events that surrounded Thor's death. He tells Erik that your reaction was unnerving. _He came apart_ , Bruce tells him. _Like a little kid comes apart_. It is difficult to hear someone speak of you this way. You find yourself withdrawing, skipping through the details of their conversation.

Erik is both terrified of you and fascinated at the same time. It is his idea to bring you to his home. No clear motive is apparent. Erik is oblivious to his own reasons. Jane is supportive, though she tells him to _be careful_. Erik is dismissive of her concerns. When Erik explains his idea to Steve Rogers, he claims that he is doing it for Thor. After all, Thor would want to know you were taken care of, that you had somewhere to go. It is clearly a lie, one specifically tailored to acquire Steve's assistance. Erik's duplicity is successful, however. Steve agrees to go and liberate you from your captors. One day later, you arrive at Erik's house.

Once again, seeing yourself from the outside is unsettling. There is no grace, no poise, no confidence. You appear shaken, frightened, and anxious. Erik is afraid of you but does not want you to know it. His fear and curiosity quickly give way to compassion. He concludes that you are not dangerous. You are simply grieving and in pain. He wants to give you space to recover. While you behave like a petulant child, completely indifferent to his generosity and benevolence, he graciously tolerates your behavior.

Various scenes unfold before you. Through the kitchen window, Erik watches you working in the garage. He admires your focus, your meticulous attention to detail. Erik looks in on you, after hearing you cry out in your sleep. Erik returns home, after a long day working at the university, and the two of you share a meal together. Such events would be considered, by most, entirely benign. Yet, you find it unbearable to look upon yourself this way, painful even.

You focus instead on the task at hand. You work frantically to knit together the remaining pieces. There is so much more that is missing, and so much that is confused and disordered. It is something like being in a dream. The longer you work, the more disconnected you feel. There are things that you know are gone forever, things that cannot be fixed. And so, you build them from scratch using what little you know to be true. The things Erik does not remember, you remember for him. You fill in the cracks with tiny bits of yourself. You've never done this before, or anything like it. You not sure how much longer you can go on before you will end up doing yourself actual harm.

And when you finally finish, you are alone. You no longer detect Erik's presence. You are not in his mind but lost somewhere within your own. You retreat deeply into the soft layers of your subconscious. You fear that you have driven yourself too far, a state beyond deep sleep. You drift through the infinite blackness, trying desperately to find something you can cling to, some safe place where you can hide and wait.

* * *

 _May 27, 2011_

You awake to a discomfort that evolves quickly into excruciating pain. You are suspended above the ground somehow, your arms pulled back behind your body. You are surrounded by walls of stone. You can feel something squeezing around your wrists and ankles. Rope, perhaps? No, it is far too strong to be rope. Whatever it is, it is very tight.

You detect random stabbing sensations all over your back and torso, like you are being pierced with knives. Your head is tilted forward, and you cannot see the rest of your body. But you fear that some portion of it may be unclothed. You slowly become aware of the temperature in the room, which is far warmer than tolerable. It is a dry, searing heat.

You sense the presence of someone very gifted in magic.

"Ah, the young prince has awoken at last," they say.

You deduce that you must be a great distance from the ground. You can feel the person moving around underneath you, and yet you cannot see them.

It becomes increasingly difficult to breathe. Every breath you draw into your lungs produces a sharp pain in your throat and chest.

"I require information that you possess," they demand. "You will give it to me, immediately."

Your initial efforts to speak are not successful. You cannot seem to take in enough air to produce words. Your shallow respirations are expressed in brief, audible gasps.

You continue to pant, and thrash against whatever is restraining you.

"I wouldn't do that," they inform you. "You'll tire yourself out. It would be an awful waste of energy."

You clench your fists, trying to break free. You are using every ounce of your strength. Yet, each movement only magnifies the pain.

"Relax," they command. "Try to concentrate."

You squirm when something touches the side of your face. Out of the corner of your eye you can make out what appear to be fingers. But you are relieved to discover that you can breathe more easily. Your discomfort subsides, just enough that you are able to think more clearly.

"Where is the Tesseract?" they ask.

"Hngh?"

"The Tesseract," they repeat. "Your father hid it. Did he not?"

 _Tesseract._ You know what that is, don't you? Odin spoke of it…one of six stones that resulted from the creation of the universe. It was rumored that he deposited the stone on Midgard, long before you or Thor were even born. You dismissed such stories as folklore. It did not make sense why Odin would choose to hide something so powerful on a realm that lacked the magic to protect it. But you are reluctant to divulge anything until you know why the request is being made.

"Who suh...suh...seeks it?" you stutter, shamefully.

"Your host, of course...the savior of our universe, he who rescued you from your untimely demise, the almighty Thanos."

 _Your untimely demise._ You recall it, suddenly, letting go of Odin's staff, falling from the bridge. And your father's expression of sheer disapproval was the last thing you saw, before descending into a sea of blackness. Your eyes tear up, ever so slightly, at the reminder.

"Made a dramatic exit, did we?" they pry. "What a pity."

You conclude that whoever is addressing you can read your mind, or at least sense your emotional state. In your weakened condition, you are unable to defend yourself against the intrusion. You panic when you realize that lying is not an option.

"It...it is most certainly in one of the nine realms," you offer, vaguely.

"Yes, I deduced as such already. I need to know which one."

"What does Thanos want with such power?"

"That is not your concern, little one."

The heat in the room intensifies even more. You gasp and writhe, helplessly. Your skin feels as though it is on fire and your throat begins to close up.

"Which realm?" they ask again.

You know not why Thanos would seek the Tesseract. Odin obviously hid it for a reason. Unlike his many other relics, he did not see fit to house it within the vault on Asgard. But Odin hid a lot of things, not the least of which was the truth. Perhaps he should suffer for his shortsightedness, for once. And if he learns that it was you who thwarted him, all the better.

"Ah," they say, with an air of satisfaction, "it is on Earth."

Before you can protest, they add, "thank you for your cooperation."

The stabbing sensation in your torso returns, and you tug frantically at your restraints.

"It was benevolence that motivated my master to intervene on your behalf," they warn. "But I caution you, he is not in the habit of lavishing mercy upon the undeserving. You are now most certainly in his debt. I shall leave you alone to contemplate how you might appropriately repay him for his kindness."

You hear them depart, shutting a large, metal door behind them. At first, you experience only rage. You buck and thrash against your restraints. The room is so hot, and you are already so very weak. You tire quickly and are out of breath. Whatever is stabbing at your flesh, it draws no blood. And it does not become dislodged by your movements.

You are not sure whether you can speak, and you are afraid to try. You think of Thor. You picture the anguish on his face, as you fell to what you assumed would be your death. Whatever he may hold against you, surely he would not want for you to suffer like this. You reach out for him with your magic, searching for some way to connect. Ultimately, you find nothing.

It hurts to breathe but you are determined to speak. You take in as much air as you can stand.

"Heim—"

You get but one syllable out before you begin coughing. Your mouth, which was previously dry, now feels strangely wet, and you fear that it is filling with blood.

You practice breathing, trying to control the rhythm of your inhalations. When you are ready, you take in a great gulp of air and try again.

"Heimdall," you choke. "Open the Bifrost."

You wait, hopefully. But nothing happens. You reach out once more...for your brother, for Frigga and even Odin. You cannot sense anything familiar, nothing connecting you to home. In the past, when you strayed from Asgard, you could still feel it there. Now, you feel nothing. It is gone, and your connection to it severed.

You cannot decide which is worse...that your family cannot hear you, or that they can hear you and are choosing not to respond. Either way, it is in your best interest, for the time being, to somehow ingratiate yourself on your host. Perhaps he can be reasoned with. And if not, perhaps he can be fooled.

Once again, the huge, metal door opens.

Two beings enter. The larger of them makes his way to the front of the room. He stands so tall that even with your head pulled back, you can still see his face. His skin is rough and purple. The sound of his boots scraping against the stone floor imply a being of tremendous weight. This must be Thanos. He is a Titan. As a child, you saw illustrations of them, and read about them in books. But this is the first one you have ever encountered.

He addresses you, chivalrously.

"You must forgive my friend," he remarks. "He is well practiced in the art of persuasion. He can get carried away at times. Like me, he is somewhat passionate about his work."

You know not what sort of response he is expecting. You cannot speak. You are still struggling to draw breath.

"Maw, lower the temperature in here," he orders. "And fetch our guest some proper clothes."

Within seconds, the searing heat subsides. It becomes easier to breathe.

"Master...while his mouth may be silent, his mind is not. He continues to cry out for his brother."

"Ah yes," Thanos notes, "the _god of thunder."_

"So, they say," Maw replies, unimpressed.

"It seems the young prince made quite the departure. But Asgard's loss is our gain. As we speak, they are rejoicing at his absence. I do not think they will be welcoming him home any time soon."

"Poor child," Maw coos, with mock concern. "All alone in the universe."

"Still...he is a fine specimen."

"I think you'll find Asgardians are very durable."

You cringe at the thought of your body being regarded so crudely.

Maw _tsks_ with disapproval.

"He _is_ willful, my lord."

Thanos reaches up and touches your cheek. You hold your breath and struggle to conceal your disgust.

"The best of us are," he says. "But I will tame that defiant spirit, in time. He may surprise us, yet."

* * *

 _April 25, 2018_

No one knows better than you do, just how quickly everything can change. So, it comes as little surprise to you when one minute you are en route to Earth, and the next you are surrounded by death and destruction.

Thanos and his minions board your ship, effortlessly. They move through it like a storm, systematically exterminating everyone in their path. You know exactly why they are here. You know that you are to blame for all of this. And so, you welcome your own demise. You wait, patiently, for Thanos to come and claim the Tesseract, and to finish you off at last. Because that would be easy. To die would be relief. To die would mean not having to face your own mistakes.

But when has anything in your life ever been easy?

They descend upon Thor like a pack of hungry wolves. And there is nothing you can do to save him. You can only watch in horror as his body is tossed and battered and abused. It's a shock to witness. Because as certain as you were that they would eventually kill you, it simply never occurred to you that they might kill Thor as well. Or that it was even possible for them to do so. If they can kill Thor, then no one is safe. The universe is doomed.

You scan the space around you frantically. Every place you look there are dead Asgardians...men, women, children, even infants. In the far corner, you can see Heimdall's body. You know not whether he is still alive, only that he is not moving.

You hear a faint groan coming from the opposite direction and you turn towards it. The green monster is on his back, trapped underneath some of the ship's wreckage. You run towards him and lift the large piece of metal from off of his chest. You leap atop him. His torso is so immense that you cannot even straddle him properly. You brace yourself against the ground with your left foot and kneel against him with your right leg. Then you beat upon him with your fists.

"They're killing him!" you shout. "They're killing him!"

Finally, he opens his eyes. He shoves you aside and rushes towards Thor. You experience a wave of hope. It is short lived, however. Having acquired the Tesseract, Thanos is now in possession of not one, but two Infinity Stones. The monster is easily subdued. You watch, in horror, as Thanos resumes squeezing your brother's head. Thor's mouth is covered with some sort of metal contraption. Though he can make no sound, it is evident that he can endure no more.

And all you can think is that Thor is dying, and you can't stop it. You don't want to see it. You don't want to hear it. So, you close your eyes and you cover your ears, and you scream. You scream until you can't scream anymore.

You think, surely, it must be over now. Surely, Thor is no longer dying, but is already dead. And it's not as though he can become more dead. So, no matter what happens next, the worst part is over.

You open your eyes, not daring to gaze in Thor's direction. You don't see Thanos or his minions anywhere. Heimdall begins to stir. He sits up, partway, supporting himself on a shaky elbow. He raises his other hand towards you and the monster and shouts an unfamiliar incantation. It is dark magic, ancient magic.

You are surrounded by bright light, not unlike that of the Bifrost. Somehow, you know that you are traveling somewhere far away at a tremendous speed. Though you have no idea where he is sending you. For several seconds you are weightless and careening through the cosmos. But as you grow closer to your destination, gravity begins to take hold. At first, it feels as though you are falling. Then, you realize that the green monster is cradling you in his arms. When you land on solid ground, he begins to transform. And as he does so, he drops you at his feet.

You are unable to stand. Your legs will not support you. You scramble, fruitlessly, ultimately collapsing in a heap. You hear words leaving your mouth, the most terrible words ever spoken, words that surely cannot be yours. _I want to go home. I want my brother. I want Mother and Father._

Bruce looks at you as though you have lost your mind. He actually tries to help you up. You pummel him with your fists. He doesn't fight back. He just lifts his hands up to protect his face. Between his fingers you can see his expression morphing from confusion to sympathy. He keeps telling you to stop. He tells you that you are hysterical, that you need to calm down. You hate him. You hate him for being too weak to prevent Thor's death. But mostly, you hate him for feeling sorry for you...and you want him to know it.

Suddenly, two men appear before you. One of them is that half-rate sorcerer you encountered not so long ago, Stephen Strange. He addresses you, first, demanding that you explain yourself. You are not listening. You only know that his tone is smug, and that he means to kill you. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't stand a chance. It would be over before he even knew what happened. But now...you don't care. Let him and his colleague finish you off. Let all of this be over with, once and for all.

Bruce stands between you, his arms splayed wide. He and the other two men yell at one another for several minutes.

"You've got much bigger problems now," Bruce promises them. He tells them Thanos is collecting Infinity Stones. And since there is one here on Earth, he will be coming. They have to act fast.

The very notion is comical. As though there is anything they can do to stop the inevitable. It matters not what you do or how quickly you do it. Earth has little defense against a creature as powerful as Thanos.

That's when Strange informs Banner that there are, in fact, two Infinity Stones on Earth. Once of which he is currently wearing around his neck.

What audacity. What arrogance. It might as well be a noose.

In light of the ridiculousness of the situation, you do the only thing you can do. You laugh. And once you start, it is difficult to stop.

Strange and his colleague eye you, suspiciously.

"Give the guy a break," Bruce says. You know not what that means, only that he is talking about you.

You sit on the ground, holding your head in your hands. Though your laughter eventually subsides, you continue to hear that phrase, over and over again in your mind. _Give the guy a break_. _Give the guy a break_. What utter nonsense. Don't they realize you're already broken?


	23. Chapter 23

More stressful subject matter

* * *

 _May 25, 2018_

As you and Steve Rogers make your way down a long, dark corridor, you encounter a well-dressed older gentleman.

"Going somewhere?"

You hold your head high. No small feat considering you are in a great deal of pain.

"Yes, I'm afraid your accommodations leave much to be desired."

"I do apologize if you feel you were mistreated. Things are a bit hectic around here, given the circumstances. You understand."

"Of course."

"We were so sorry to hear about your brother. As I'm sure you know, he was regarded as a hero by our people."

The man's words are dripping with insincerity. His body language implies that he is a politician, or possibly even a salesman of some sort. But he is wearing what appears to be military attire.

"Hmm," you reply, "I wonder what that makes me."

He reaches out to shake your hand. When it becomes clear that you have no intention of returning his gesture, he withdraws it.

"That's actually why I'm here. You see, there seems to be some debate as to where your loyalties lie."

"Well, allow me to settle it. I have none."

"Loki—" Steve warns.

"It's alright, Captain," the man says. "He is free to speak his mind, of course. In fact, I encourage it."

"I realize the casualties have been great," Steve claims, "but they would have been greater without his assistance."

You know not how accurate a statement that is. Considering Thanos succeeded in wiping out half the Earth's population, you seriously doubt that your efforts were any more significant than anyone else's.

"There are some people here who have some questions for you," he tells you.

You scan the corridor. There are no guards anywhere. The man before you is not armed. You detect no barriers nearby. And you cannot help noticing that you are mysteriously unshackled.

"And if I answer those questions, I suppose I'll just be free to go?"

"Well, that depends."

"Upon?"

"How you answer them."

Of course, there is always a catch.

"What could I possibly say that would be of any interest to anyone?"

"That remains to be seen."

"And if I answer the questions in a manner that is deemed...acceptable?"

"You will be granted asylum here."

"Right," you return, skeptically.

You have no intention of lingering on Earth for any length of time. It certainly would be easier not to have to make a hasty getaway. Especially since you've yet to recover fully from your injuries. There are worse places to lay low, at least.

The man gestures for you and Steve to change course. You go back the way you came and head down another hallway altogether. You eventually arrive at a door.

He opens the door and you walk through it. Steve does not follow.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside, Captain Rogers," he says. "We won't be long."

You glance at Steve, whose expression implies some level of concern. About what, you do not know.

The room you enter is even darker than the corridor from which you came. As soon as you are inside, the older gentleman disappears into the shadows.

The needle prick comes as a bit of a surprise. In your weakened state, your reaction time is diminished. Had you seen it coming, you might have done something to prevent it. You grip your bicep. The site where you were injected begins to throb. The throbbing travels down the length of your arm and there is a tingling sensation in your fingers.

"You may experience some temporary discomfort," a woman informs you.

You are overcome with dizziness. Just as you feel your legs beginning to collapse underneath you, someone grabs you from behind and lowers you into a chair.

"Did you give him too much?" a man asks.

It is definitely not the same man who greeted you in the hallway. This man is much younger.

"No," she replies. "He'll level out. It just takes a minute."

Suddenly, you are overwhelmed by a rush of nausea.

You have not eaten in days. And so, your heaving is fruitless. Your body still goes through the motions. Hands are on you again, guiding your head down towards the floor. The room is mostly dark, and you cannot see what is happening. After a few minutes, the urge to vomit passes.

"What makes you think this shit will even work on him?" the man inquires.

"It worked on Rogers," she points out.

"Rogers is human. He's also a pushover. He can't lie to save his life."

"Even so, this chemical makes lying pretty much impossible. It blocks electrical activity in the part of the brain associated with creative thinking. The subject can only rely on their memory to answer questions."

"I want to test it, first. I need to be sure that his answers are genuine."

"Yeah? How do you plan to do that?"

He does not answer her. Instead, he pokes you in the chest.

"Tell me about the worst day of your life."

The woman scoffs.

"What, are we playing _truth or dare_? You going to ask him about his first kiss—"

"Why don't you shut up so he can answer?"

He pokes you a second time.

"Did you hear me?"

You nod. When you speak, your words come out slurred. You don't feel like yourself at all. Something is very, very wrong.

"I…don't feel right," you mutter, blankly.

He ignores your complaint.

"Do you understand the question?" he asks you.

"Question?"

"I asked you to tell me about the worst day of your life."

The request is one that would, under any other circumstances, require some thorough contemplation. Somehow, the answer comes to you immediately. There's no deeper thought process. It is as though your subconscious has been blown wide open. Your response comes with frightening automacy.

"I suppose...when I discovered that I was adopted."

"He's adopted," he says to the woman. "Did we know that already?"

"Yeah. It's in the file. Which you would know, if you'd bothered to read the damn thing—"

He turns back to you.

"And what was so terrible about that? Aside from the obvious."

There is no thinking involved. Only a response.

"Well…I didn't fully resemble either of my parents, or my brother. I suppose I always felt somewhat...extraneous."

"So…when you realized that it was more than just paranoia—"

"In hindsight," you confide, "I believe I may have been too deeply invested in my identity as an Asgardian."

You are unnerved by your own candor. These are thoughts you have never before shared. You wish you could make yourself stop talking. But alas, you cannot.

"Bummer," the man remarks, callously. "And how did that make you feel?"

You struggle to contain your emotions. You don't want to discuss this. And you certainly do not understand what interest it would be to these people, or anyone else for that matter.

"I...don't know what you mean," you claim, weakly.

"You have to be more specific," the woman advises. "The more specific your question, the more specific the answer."

He rephrases his question.

"How did it feel to suspect that you were adopted and then to discover that you were correct?"

Your mouth hangs open, briefly. You imagine yourself standing up and walking out of the room. But you cannot move. Your legs are numb and useless.

"Horrible," you confess.

As the word leaves your lips, you experience an incredible sense of violation. It is as though someone has pried open your mind and robbed you of your most private thoughts.

"Horrible," he echoes. "In what sense?"

You clear your throat.

"Please—"

"Answer the question," he repeats, more firmly.

"I don't want to," you whisper.

He leans in close. You can feel his breath on your cheek.

"But you will. One way or another, you will tell me what I want to know. Might as well get it over with."

"Why are you doing this?" you ask.

"Stop resisting and answer the question. It was _horrible_ to discover that you were adopted. Tell me how."

Once again, the truth comes pouring out of you, and you are unable to stop it.

"I..I...realized that my entire life had been a lie."

"Uh huh. Go on."

"I didn't know who I was anymore. I felt...alone. My heart was broken."

"Are you satisfied?" the woman asks him.

"Yeah," the man replies, sounding utterly bored.

"Are you sure? You don't want to make him sing _MacArthur Park_ or cluck like a chicken or something?"

"Let's just get started."

Doors open and people file in, at least a dozen. They seat themselves on the opposite side of the room. There is a light being shined in your direction, so you cannot see their faces. You cannot make out any distinct lines or shapes, only patches of darkness and brightness. Ordinarily, you can sense the presence of individual people. Right now, your perception of such things is dull and jumbled.

The woman is the first to speak.

"Would you state your name for the record?"

You blink and peer into the light that is now being shined at your face.

"I am Loki...of Asgard."

"Last name?"

You wrack your brain. Asgardians do not utilize last names, at least not in the way that Midgardians do. Still, you know there must be some cultural equivalent. How was it that the Midgardians had referred to Thor? Oh, yes—

"Odinson."

"And what is your date of birth?"

"Date of birth?"

"The day you were born."

"I know not the specific day."

"Well, approximately how old are you?"

"I was born during the second half of the 10th century, on your Gregorian calendar."

"That would make you just over a thousand years old."

"That sounds accurate."

"And you are the only surviving Asgardian."

"Apparently."

"Your home planet was destroyed."

"Correct."

"Tell me about your mother."

"What about her?"

"Were you close?"

"Yes."

"How did she die?"

"She was murdered."

"By whom?"

"A Dark Elf known as Malekith."

"Is this Malekith still around?"

"No."

"Your mother's death, was that recent?"

"Relatively, yes."

"And your father?"

"What about him?"

"Were you close?"

"No."

"And his death…was recent as well?"

"Yes."

"How did he die?"

"He was very old."

"So...it was just natural causes."

"Yes."

"And your brother, Thor…were you close?"

"At times, yes. Mostly, no."

"He was killed by Thanos."

"That's correct."

"How was he killed?"

"What?" you ask, even though you heard her perfectly well.

"How was he killed? Did Thanos use a weapon?"

"A weapon?" you repeat.

"Is my question confusing?"

"No..."

You lift your own hands and endeavor to simulate what you witnessed. Your arms feel heavy and clumsy. You curl your fingers, as though you are grasping something large and round.

"I need a verbal response."

"Thanos...he...he crushed—" you stutter.

You just want to get the words out. You want to give her what she wants, so she will leave you alone.

"He crushed your brother's head," she finishes.

"Yes," you practically gasp.

"So, no weapon."

"No."

"Did your brother die right away?" the man interrupts.

"I...I don't know."

"About how long did it take for him to die?"

"Do we really need this?" the woman asks. "We already got testimony about this from Banner."

"It wasn't from Banner," he replies to his colleague. "It was from Steve Rogers. Which makes it hearsay. I'd prefer to corroborate the details, if possible—"

"Well, you don't need to be an asshole about it."

He ignores her and addresses you, once more.

"How long did it take for your brother to die?"

"I don't know, exactly."

"But you were present when it happened."

"I was."

"How close were you, physically?"

You shake your head again.

"I don't—"

"Were you in the same room?"

"Yes."

"So, you were in the room with him when he died, but you don't know how long it took for him to die."

"I closed my eyes."

"What—"

"I didn't want to see it or hear it. I closed my eyes and I covered my ears...and I screamed. I screamed and I screamed until it was over. Because...because it should have been me—"

You feel out of breath. The nausea returns.

"Jesus Christ," the woman says to the man. "Are you happy? Can we move on now?"

"Hey, you do your job. I'll do mine."

"What exactly _is_ your job?" she snaps.

You sit, listening to them argue. You can sense the animosity between them, animosity that has nothing to do with you whatsoever. There's a palpable tension there. And you focus on it, allow it to distract you from your own discomfort. So much so that you do not notice the woman addressing you again.

"Mr. Odinson—"

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked, what brought you to Earth in 2012?"

"The Tesseract."

Your response elicits a chorus of laughter, followed by hushed conversation.

"Um...let me rephrase that. _Why_ did you come to Earth back in 2012?"

"Why?"

"Yes...why?"

"I um...I came because—"

Thanos knew that the Tesseract was here. He wanted you to retrieve it. And you told him, confidently, that you could do so. Even at that point you knew what he was capable of. He went to great lengths to illustrate what torment would await you, should you fail him. You were terrified of him, and desperate to escape that fate. And yet, there was still a part of you that longed to earn his respect, to distinguish yourself from the other members of his crew. You picture yourself, no more than a boy, chasing after Odin, clamoring for his approval. Then, you picture yourself a man, petitioning Thanos similarly. A wave of shame washes over you.

"Do you need a moment?" she asks.

When you inhale, you realize that your nose is running. You reach up and touch your face and are horrified to discover that it is wet.

"I...I'm sorry," you mumble. You are grateful that you are too numb to be embarrassed.

"Just answer the question. Why did you come to Earth in 2012?"

"I came to retrieve the Tesseract."

"For Thanos."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You were helping Thanos to create the _Infinity Gauntlet?"_

"No," you correct. "I mean, yes, that was ultimately his purpose. But I was not aware of it at the time."

"When did you first become aware of his intention to create this weapon?"

"Not until he attacked our vessel."

"The Statesman," she clarifies, "the vessel that was carrying the Asgardian refugees to Earth."

"Yes."

"You were at least aware that Thanos was attempting to acquire the Infinity Stones. Were you not?"

"In a broad sense."

"But you didn't know why."

"I assumed he had ill intentions for them."

"Why did you assume that?"

You are beginning to feel more alert, more awake, although still not in control of yourself.

"He claimed his goal was to bring salvation to the universe...but he spoke only of death and destruction. His followers regarded him as some sort of messiah figure. I dismissed it as madness."

"But you didn't suspect that he might be planning to combine these Infinity Stones?"

"He did not speak of it to me."

"How did Thanos know where to find the Tesseract?"

"That information was...extracted from me by one of his underlings."

"Against your will?"

"Yes."

"And how did _you_ know where to find it?"

"Odin stored it here, many years ago. He told us of it when we were children. Though honestly, I suspected it was merely folklore."

"Why is that?"

"My father was prone to exaggeration."

"How did you first encounter Thanos?"

"I had a disagreement with my family. I...left Asgard rather hastily. A short time later, I encountered Thanos."

"You had a fight with your parents, and you ran away from home," she summarizes, crudely.

"I suppose that's accurate."

"Describe Thanos. What was he like?"

"Imposing...predatory."

"In what way was he _predatory_?"

"He had a habit of recruiting the...discontented."

"Discontented?"

"He sought out people who were bitter and angry, but also vulnerable."

"Why do you think that is?"

"They were easier to manipulate."

"I see. Were you also _discontented_?"

"At the time, yes."

"Because of the aforementioned _disagreement_ with your family."

"Among other things, yes."

"How did Thanos go about recruiting you?"

"He was overflowing with indiscriminate praise. He didn't know me, or anything about me really. He knew that I was a prince from Asgard, but little else. And yet, he went on about how special I was, how uniquely qualified to serve his cause."

"Not accustomed to compliments?"

"Not like that," you admit, "no."

"Did you express any skepticism?"

"Not directly...but I very quickly ascertained that it would be in my best interest to part ways with him."

"And you communicated that?"

"In a sense."

"How did he respond?"

"He told me that I should be more grateful that he had taken such a keen interest in me. He seemed to think that I should be honored to have attracted his attention."

"What did you do, then?"

"I realized that my situation was more precarious than I had originally thought. I decided to go along with what he wanted for the time being, to be cordial while I carefully plotted my escape."

"Was he suspicious?"

"No."

"Did you make another attempt to leave?"

"Yes."

"I take it you were not successful."

"Correct."

"How did Thanos react to this?"

"He told me that freedom was life's great lie, that nothing I'd ever done had ever really been my choice. My fate had already been decided long ago. If I would just accept that, I would no longer feel compelled to fight him."

"You said some similar things when you arrived on Earth in 2012."

"Yes."

"Did you believe what you were saying or were you merely repeating what you'd been told?"

"A bit of both, I suppose."

"How exactly did Thanos prevent you from leaving?"

"He used some sort of weapon to render me unconscious. And when I awoke, I found myself...confined."

"Confined how?"

"In a cell of some sort. The space around me was limited. There were no doors or openings and no sort of light or sound."

"Did you have access to food or water?"

"No."

"Were you able to sleep?"

"I think I may have drifted off a few times, but not for very long."

"Why is that?"

"I was kneeling. The space was...just large enough for me to maintain that position. I could not sit or stand. It was difficult to get comfortable."

"How long were you confined?"

"I don't know. It felt like an eternity. It may have been only days or weeks."

"Did you see anyone during that time?"

"Thanos would come, periodically, and talk to me."

"What did he say?"

"He wanted to reiterate that no one was coming to rescue me. He told me that my family believed me to be dead and that they were celebrating my absence."

"In order to extinguish any hope."

"Yes."

"Did you believe him?"

"I didn't know what to believe."

"Some part of you must have believed him."

"I reached out to my family for assistance, repeatedly. They did not respond. After what Thanos said, I suspected they might be ignoring me."

"Were they?"

"I don't know."

"You never found out?"

"No."

"At what point did Thanos release you from captivity?"

"The cell had a door that could be activated and deactivated. One day, when he came to speak with me, he just...left it open."

"Why do you think he did that?"

"To see if I would try to escape."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

You shake your head.

"So, he must have determined that he could trust you," she concludes.

"To some extent."

"And that's when he released you from the cell."

"Correct."

"Is that also when he demanded that you retrieve the Tesseract?"

"He didn't demand it."

"Oh?"

"I...volunteered."

"Why would you do that?"

"Despite my reservations...I think there was still a part of me that wanted to gain his approval."

"Only a part? What about the rest of you?"

"The rest of me wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. Going to Earth seemed like a good way to do that. And knowing that my brother was particularly fond of this realm...I thought he might attempt to intercept me."

"You...wanted to be intercepted? Why?"

"I knew that if Thor collected me, he would insist upon returning me to Asgard, so I could answer for my crimes. Even if I was in the dungeon, I would at least be safe."

"Safe from Thanos."

"Yes."

"What did you think Thanos would do to you, once he discovered that you had betrayed him?"

"He promised unimaginable pain."

"Did he describe how he would inflict this pain?"

"No."

"But you believed him."

"I saw enough to know that he was capable of carrying out his threat."

"If Thanos knew where the Tesseract was, why would he not come and retrieve it himself?"

"Thanos rarely performed such tasks. He almost always sent another to do his bidding."

"So...it was just laziness."

"Not _just_. I also believe it's possible that my father cast spells to prevent him from coming here. It would explain why he only did so once Odin had...passed."

"Immediately prior to your arrival, the Tesseract began giving off a tremendous amount of energy. Was that your doing?"

"Somehow Thanos was able to establish a connection with it. He used that connection to transport me to Earth. My arrival triggered the surge of energy that you witnessed."

"You were armed with a powerful weapon when you arrived. A scepter which housed the uh... _Mind Stone_?"

"Correct."

"Why would Thanos arm you with such a weapon, if it was his goal to subdue you?"

"I don't know that he could have subdued me without it."

"The scepter was controlling you."

"I was influenced by it."

"How?"

"The stone within it was beyond anything else I've ever seen or felt. When I held it in my hands, it...spoke to me."

"What did it say?"

"It did not communicate in words. Each individual's connection to the Mind Stone is unique. In the hands of another, it would yield a different result entirely. I was in a bad way, and I think the stone could sense that. As a result, I became...severely deluded."

"You took some lives when you came to Earth. You killed several guards, kidnapped dozens of people, and demolished an entire military compound."

"Technically, I did not demolish the compound. It was the energy from the Tesseract that caused its collapse."

"Eighty-two people died as a result of those creatures that came through the wormhole. Do you deny responsibility for that as well?"

"I don't deny anything."

"Were you aware of what you were doing?"

"I was confused and disoriented—"

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes, I was aware."

"But your actions were, as you previously stated, _influenced_ by the scepter."

"Yes."

"How greatly were they influenced?"

"I know not how I would measure such a thing."

"Guess. Fifty percent? More than fifty percent?"

You pause and consider it.

"More, I think."

"How much more? If you _had_ to say, that is."

"I don't know."

"Eighty percent? Eighty-five?"

"Yes."

"Which one?" she asks. "Eighty or eighty-five?"

"Eighty-five."

"So...fifteen percent of you knew exactly what you were doing," she concludes.

You know not how to respond. There were moments when you felt as though you were in complete control of what was happening around you. But there were other moments...moments where you felt like nothing more than a puppet, an inanimate object that was being manipulated by someone else's hand. You recall Thor's eyes on you, brief glimpses of compassion among all the judgment and derision. You remember trying to cling to that, to take hold of it and let it carry you to safety. But somehow, it was not enough.

"Answer the question."

"Yes," you confirm.

"Would you say that Thanos took advantage of you?"

 _Took advantage._ You cringe at her choice of words. You hold your breath as though that can somehow prevent you from speaking. But it does not. You release the air in your lungs and lick your lips several times. You know you are only delaying the inevitable.

"Yes."

"You might even say that he wielded you...like a weapon. Would that be a fair assessment?"

Something deep within you is screaming. A true warrior would never allow himself to be used. He would never succumb, no matter how great the threat. No measure of torture would break him. He would endure any suffering. He would die bravely, with weapon in hand, never yielding—

"Mister Odinson?"

"A fair assessment...yes."

"Do you regret your involvement with Thanos?"

"Very much, yes."

"What assurance do we have that you no longer pose a threat to Earth?"

"None, I suppose."

You realize such a statement is unlikely to inspire them to trust you. And yet, you cannot stop yourself from making it.

"So, if we were to grant you asylum here, you will eventually repeat such behavior."

"I have no quarrel with the people of this realm."

"You just suggested that you may still be a threat."

"I have extensive combat training and I am a skilled sorcerer."

"I see. What we need to know is whether you have any intention of committing violence."

"Intention? Not at the moment."

"So, that might change."

"If I were properly provoked, yes."

"You mean if you were put in a position where you needed to defend yourself."

"Yes."

"So, you wouldn't feel compelled to initiate violence against someone without provocation."

You ponder it. You are capable of doing great harm, even with just your bare hands. But violence is messy, and you prefer to avoid it. You certainly aren't going to go looking for it. Should you need to manipulate your circumstances, you would rather do so with words.

"Without provocation? No. That would be impractical."

"Where is Thanos now?" a second man inquires.

You recognize his voice, immediately. It is the older gentleman who greeted you in the corridor.

"I have no idea."

"He never told you where he might go, once he'd executed his plan."

"He did not."

"Could you speculate?"

"He never stayed in the same place for very long. He was able to travel great distances, instantaneously. He could literally be anywhere. He may even be dead."

"If you know where he is," he presses, "that information would be very valuable to us."

"I just said that I don't."

The woman addresses you again.

"Will you confirm, for the record, that the testimony you have just given is the truth?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think we've got all we need," she declares.

The older gentleman chimes in once more.

"That's it? This guy has the strength of fifty men. We have evidence that he can alter his appearance at will, or even disappear altogether—"

She regards him, tiredly.

"Relax...we'll have him make a list of all unique abilities and powers, just like we did with—"

"What good is a list going to do us? We cannot have enhanced beings running wild on this planet, accountable to no one."

"Well, lucky for you, most of the _enhanced beings_ were lost in the snap."

"Yeah? And what about the ones who weren't?"

"We're still working on it."

"I don't understand why we're bothering with any of this. Why not just put them all in the Fridge and be done with it?"

"Where have you been?" a third man asks. This is not the same man who was questioning you earlier. "The Fridge is being shut down. Gone are the days of storing every enhanced being under lock and key. Do you have any idea how much that shit is costing taxpayers?"

"Not that you care," the woman retorts. "Do you even pay taxes?"

The older man growls at her.

"How _dare_ you—"

"We don't have the resources to house and monitor every enhanced being on this planet," the third man says. "I don't like the guy any more than you do. But he protected lives. He didn't have to do that. He's an asylum seeker. Technically, he has rights."

"Come on, Rhodes," the older man protests. "He's not even human."

"He's still a person."

"A person with a history of wanton violence—"

"A person who is no longer considered a substantial threat by S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve Rogers vouched for this guy—"

"I don't trust him either!"

"We have to think globally, now. There are reparations to make. We have cities to rebuild. Not to mention, if things ever go south again, we might actually need him on our side—"

"He's not an ally. He's an opportunist—"

"No, Colonel," the woman interrupts. "That's you. _You're_ the opportunist."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's not up to us anymore, Ross," the third man offers. "Face it, we're old news. We were invited to sit in on this interview as a courtesy. Nothing more. The tracer will allow us to track their location anywhere on Earth, at any given time—"

"The tracer only has a half-life of twenty years," the older man complains

The woman laughs.

"What are you worried about, old man? You'll probably be dead by then."

"You kids are worse than HYDRA," the older man groans. "You're going to ruin everything—"

* * *

 _March 3, 2024_

You gaze up at the sky, which is a starless expanse of black. You can barely see what is around you. It seems like you've been walking for a long time, though you cannot remember where you are going. Likewise, you cannot remember where you've been. You know only that you are here now, wherever _here_ is.

You are exhausted and can no longer continue. The soil beneath your feet is soft and moist. When you drop to the ground, you rest on your knees and your hands end up planted deeply in the wet earth. You push yourself up and wipe your hands on your legs. It hardly makes any difference. Some mud transfers onto your pants, while a thin layer remains on your hands. You make a second attempt to wipe them clean, this time on your shirt, and it is equally futile. There isn't any part of you that isn't muddy now. Oh, how you hate to be dirty.

You crawl along the wet ground until you reach a tree. You lean up against it and rock back and forth a bit, your hands wrapped tightly around your knees. You aren't cold. But somehow, the rocking makes you feel safer and less alone.

There is a faint rustling of leaves. Someone or something is in the shrubbery, nearby. An animal, perhaps? Your eyes dart back and forth, scanning the darkness. You detect a distant glow of light. The light approaches you, slowly. Eventually you are able to see that there is a figure approaching…a man. He is tall, older in years. He has a gentle face. He is holding a small torch. It is a strange contraption, not lit with fire but glowing all the same.

When he reaches the point where you are sitting, he stops walking.

"I found you," he announces.

He is pleased, though you know not why. You had no idea that anyone was even searching for you, let alone this man. Whoever he is.

"I knew you'd be here," he adds.

Your eyes grow wide with fear. But your curiosity wins out and you will yourself to speak.

"How did you know?" you ask.

"Oh," he explains, "everyone has somewhere they go when they're afraid."

"I'm not afraid," you declare, as boldly as you can muster.

You wonder whether he can tell that you are lying. He crouches down on the ground next to you and sets his torch aside. He appears unconcerned about the mud. He leans up against the tree. He does not acknowledge your claim.

"Look how small you are," he murmurs, instead.

You cannot help but be offended by his observation. You are small, yes. But there are probably some who are smaller.

"I'm not _that_ small," you protest.

You straighten your spine and stretch out your legs to lengthen your form.

"Of course not," he returns. "You're quite robust, in fact. Very strong, I have no doubt."

"You are mocking me," you say, quietly.

"No," he tells you, "I would never do that."

There's something in his tone of voice that you find warm and comfortable. He smiles at you, his eyes twinkling.

He takes off his scarf, and delicately wipes the mud from your hands and face.

"That's better, eh?"

You nod. It is better.

He gets to his feet and then reaches for you.

"I can walk," you assure him, although you are very tired and would much rather not.

Small as you are, you are certain that you are still far too old to be carried. He must not think so, however, because he lifts you off the ground and clutches you tightly against his chest.

"That's a good lad," the man says.

For a moment, he doesn't do anything but hold you. When you wrap your arms around his neck, he pats your back, gently. You bury your nose in the material of his sweater and inhale deeply. He smells familiar and your eyes tear up in response.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Home," he replies. "We're going home."

He begins to trek down the dirt road, between the trees. There is a path stretching out before you. You do not remember where home is. Nor do you know who this man is. But you are content in his arms. You want this walk to last forever.

* * *

 _March 3, 2024_

When you force your eyes open, you see Jane's face, hovering above you. You try to speak to her. You know you are speaking because you can feel yourself doing so. You are producing sound, at least. You can feel the vibration of your vocal chords. But what you are actually hearing does not make any sense.

Jane looks incredibly frightened. She presses her hand against your forehead. Her fingers are like ice against your skin.

"You have a halo," she whispers.

Suddenly, your body begins to move, all on its own. Everything inside you tightens and you begin to shake. You cannot breathe. You cannot speak. You do not know what is happening to you. The ordeal lasts less than a minute. But it is still terrifying, nonetheless. When it finally stops, you are weak and limp. You close your eyes once more, surrendering to the exhaustion.


	24. Chapter 24

_March 3, 2024_

Sometimes, when you are dreaming, you know that you are dreaming. Things might seem real enough, but there are usually signs, little things that are out of place, subtle clues that something is amiss.

Right now, you are not dreaming. Nor are you awake. You are idling, somewhere in between, a willing prisoner at the bottom of a deep, dark chasm. And there is a pleasant, sticky warmth, an almost numbing placidity, that is weighing you down and preventing you from making your way to the surface.

That is until, from somewhere in the distance, there comes a plea.

 _Open your eyes._

The words are faint, initially, barely audible. And thus, they are easily dismissed.

But the pleading continues.

 _Open your eyes._

 _Open your eyes for me._

 _Come on, open your eyes._

There is a tickling within you, like the tugging of a single thread, something gently pulling from the outside. And with each tug, comes yet another plea.

 _Open your eyes._

 _Open your eyes._

 _Open._

 _Open._

 _Open._

You know not the source of this request. But one thing is certain. The threat of consciousness is imminent.

And it definitely _is_ a threat. Because wherever you are, you are rather comfortable, and you would prefer to go on being comfortable. Waking takes time, and tremendous energy. So, you fight against it. You resist climbing out of that darkness, for as long as possible. Whatever force is tugging from the outside, it simply refuses to yield.

You begin to experience what can only be described as _sensory overload_. All at once, you gain awareness of many things.

There is a burning sensation in the center of your chest, the unmistakable result of both pressure and friction.

You are in transit. You detect movement, the dull hum of an engine. You can feel its vibration underneath you.

Your pants are wet. Not just damp, but thoroughly soaked.

Your chest and arms are bare. You are very cold, to the extent that your body is shivering.

Your hands, especially, are trembling. And there is something clamped onto one of your fingers.

As though that were not enough, the dull hum is interrupted by a terrible wailing. It echoes around you, like a continuous, mechanical scream. It is a horrid, all-encompassing sound. And it repeats its long refrain several times before ceasing.

Once again, there comes a plea. This time, not from far away, but from very, very close. This is not a figment of your imagination at all. Nor is it a dream. It is an actual voice, and that voice belongs to a person.

"Come on, honey," she coos. "Open your eyes."

There are knuckles rubbing against your sternum. They are pressing and digging into your flesh. You don't like it. No, you do not.

"Open your eyes," the voice repeats, more forcefully.

Fueled mostly by irritation, you finally summon the strength to acquiesce. You open your eyes.

It takes you a few seconds to keep them open long enough to focus on anything. When you do, you survey the space around you. It is fairly confined. There is a woman sitting right beside you. You have never seen her before in your life. Furthermore, you have no idea how you got here or where you are going.

There is something in your mouth, a thick wad of cloth or gauze. Your attempts to spit it out are unsuccessful. It continues to cling to your lips.

"You bit your tongue," the woman says.

Preposterous. Why would you bite your own tongue? You do not remember doing so. But when she removes the gauze from your mouth, you can taste blood.

The woman takes hold of your chin and shines a light directly into your eyes.

"Look at me, hon."

You try to turn your head, in order to thwart her. She lets go of your chin. But a stabbing pain shoots through your neck, forcing you to cry out.

"You had a seizure," she explains. "You're going to the hospital."

She must not be expecting a response, because she does not wait for you to answer. It's just as well, since you have no idea what she's talking about.

The woman presses some kind of tool against your forehead. The tool in her hand beeps. She withdraws it, muttering to herself.

"Jesus…that can't be right."

She taps the tool with frustration and presses it to your forehead again. A few seconds later, there's another beep.

The woman begins to move with more urgency. She produces several small foil sacks and arranges them around you. She puts one under each of your arms and one on top of your head. They feel like ice against your bare skin. You squirm against them, groaning. Damn these Midgardian healers and their archaic practices. You are already cold. There is no logical reason to make you even colder.

"I'm starting a central line," she advises, as if that means anything to you at all.

She turns her back to you. You wonder if, perhaps, she is through with you and is planning to leave you alone. You let your eyes fall closed. Just when you are beginning to relax, something stabs you in the shoulder. The pinch that follows does not last long. Nevertheless, it is startling enough that your eyes are wide open again.

You want very much to defend yourself against this unwarranted assault. Except that you appear to be restrained by a set of straps. Your forearms are still free. So, you reach out with your hands, hoping to grab onto something nearby. Unfortunately, your limbs are weak, and you cannot control them. Your fists flail about, smacking awkwardly into the woman. She braces herself against the wall behind her.

"I need some help over here," she yells.

You know not for whom her announcement is intended. There may be others present. If this is a vehicle or a vessel of some kind, then surely someone is piloting it. But you are facing the opposite direction and cannot see them.

Just then, a second person enters your line of vision. It is Steve Rogers. You can think of no reason for him to be here, now. And yet, here he is.

Steve crouches down beside you, grabs your wrists and presses your arms against your chest. He is incredibly strong for a mere mortal, and he subdues you with little effort. While he's obviously not trying to hurt you, you resent the gesture. You struggle against him, fruitlessly.

Whatever the woman stabbed you with, it is still in your shoulder, affixed to your skin with tape. She attaches a small contraption to it and produces a syringe.

"Pushing acetaminophen," she says, injecting the medicine into contraption, "five hundred."

She turns to Steve.

"If this guy is on something now would be the time to tell me."

"He's not _on_ anything," Steve replies.

"He's got an awfully big bruise on his arm."

"He had an IV, but he pulled it out."

"What was in it?"

"It wasn't anything recreational, if that's what you're suggesting."

"He has a body temperature of a 107 degrees and his heart is beating almost 200 times per minute. I'm about to push adenosine to slow his heart down. If that there's any chance that seizure was caused by something other than a fever, like say...drugs, I need to know now."

Steve lets go of you and pulls something from his pocket, a folded piece of paper. He hesitates, briefly, before handing it over to the woman.

The woman regards him with confusion. She unfolds the paper and scans it quickly.

"Alright, then," she remarks, apparently satisfied.

You suddenly realize that it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. You were so distracted by their conversation that you somehow managed not to notice. When you begin panting, in order to take in more air, the woman flings the paper aside and turns her attention back to you.

"His sats are dropping."

Steve picks up the piece of paper, folds it up and stuffs it back in his pocket.

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"It's means that because his heart is beating too fast, he's not getting enough oxygen."

"What about the stuff you just gave him?"

"It's not working—"

She places a mask over your mouth and nose. The mask has an elastic band attached to it, which stretches to fit the circumference of your skull. The interior of the mask is emitting something cool, which you quickly deduce is the aforementioned _oxygen_. You inhale the gas into your lungs. As you do, the mask begins to fog up, your hot breath creating tiny beads of perspiration on the surface of the plastic.

Ordinarily, you wouldn't want anything covering your mouth or nose, regardless of its purpose. But you can breathe more easily with the mask than without it. You decide to allow it to remain on your face for now.

"Hey," the woman tells you, "keep those eyes open, okay? We're almost there."

There's a lurch. The vehicle you are traveling in comes to an abrupt stop. The doors in front of you fly open. There is a small group of people standing before you. They ogle you, expectantly, as though they were waiting for you to arrive.

The woman addresses the entire group. She speaks so rapidly that you cannot understand everything she is saying. But you suspect that she is describing you. The bed you are lying on is rolled out of the vehicle, through a set of doors and down a long corridor. You turn and turn and turn again. The corridors are never ending. Above you there are a series of bright, artificial lights, and they burn your eyes.

The woman's voice gradually fades into the background and is replaced by new voices. There are hands and faces all around you. The hands lift and move your body onto a bed. They poke and grab and pull and touch you. _Every_ part of you.

In a very short span of time, your shoes and socks are removed, and your jeans and undergarments are cut away. You are covered almost immediately with a gown and a thin cloth. Even so, you panic at the prospect of being naked at all, let alone before an audience of strangers in a well-lit room.

The faces ask you questions that you cannot answer. Every time you close your eyes, they demand that you open them. They want you to _stay awake_. They keep talking to you and encouraging you to talk. Except that you can't, for some reason. So, you just stare at them.

The faces talk amongst themselves as well. They discuss you constantly, at times in graphic detail. You listen to what they are saying, even though their words are mostly meaningless to you.

Some part of you knows that this is a _hospital_ , a place of healing. But you cannot help wondering whether this is meant to be some bizarre form of torture. Perhaps the rulers of Midgard have seen fit to withdraw their benevolence and have finally decided to punish you for your crimes.

Still, if this is meant to be torture, it is most unconventional. Among the practitioners are both men and women. But the women are especially concerned about your well-being. They hover and fuss over you like a flock of mother hens, calling you _sweetie_ and _honey_ and _dear._

There are far too many sounds, a chorus of noises comprised of various types of machinery, footsteps, telephones ringing, people talking and laughing. The pressure within your cranium is slowly building. You fear it will eventually explode.

At last, the interrogation ceases. Once again, you are moving. Your bed is being rolled down another long hallway, and you are turning and turning. This time, however, you are taken away from all the noise and bright lights to a room that is dimly lit and very quiet.

Steve Rogers is there, and a small woman with dark hair. She and Steve are both oddly dressed. They are wearing paper aprons and hats, and latex gloves. They also have masks on their faces, so their mouths are obscured. When they speak to one another, you cannot understand them. Their voices sound fuzzy and strange.

You are alarmed when Steve begins rolling you onto your side. You don't have the strength to resist him. Nor, can you resist when he bends your legs at the knee and pushes them upwards, closer and closer to your torso. He holds your legs in place, so that you cannot move them. It is not a comfortable position at all.

Beside you, on your bed, lay a web of intersecting wires and tubes. It's unclear precisely how or where they are connected to your body. But they must be important, because the small woman rearranges them with great care. On your left wrist, there is a white bracelet with some kind of writing on it. Your vision is blurry, and you cannot make out what it says. Lurking beneath your confusion is the vague understanding that these things are good. Or at the very least, they are not bad. They are not intended to harm you but are there for your benefit.

The small woman moves behind you. You can make out her individual fingers, crawling along your back and pressing into your skin. You panic, as you consider the possibility that you are unclothed. No, you decide. You are still wearing a gown. You deduce that it must open in the back.

You gasp when you detect something sharp, piercing your flesh. Attempts to turn your head are once again rewarded with a stabbing pain in your neck.

You feel immense pressure against your spine. It is a sensation you have never experienced before in your life, and you don't much like it. The pain in your neck begins to radiate down your torso and into your pelvis and legs. And then, absolutely everything hurts. The ache is dull at first, but it quickly becomes nearly intolerable. Though you cannot hear yourself, you know that you are whimpering.

Thor materializes before you. Not as a man, but a young boy, his face still chubby and his head a mess of blonde curls. He leans against the side of your bed, his round, little cheeks framing a satisfied grin.

"Only babies cry," he informs you.

You long to say something clever in return, or just conjure something and throw it at him.

Little Thor sticks out his tongue. You close your eyes, so you don't have to see his stupid face. Even so, you can still hear him, taunting you.

You have no idea what is going on. This is all so surreal that you begin to suspect that it is a nightmare. You need only to wake up and it will all be over.

 _Wake up,_ you think, as though you might somehow will it to happen. _Wake up. Wake up. Wake up_.

The other people in the room are oblivious to Thor's presence. You try to cough or make some kind of noise to get their attention. You produce a rather pathetic squeak, which prompts Steve to glance in your direction. He either cannot see Thor, or he does not care. He says something to you. Once again, his voice is fuzzy and strange. But among all his garbled words, one is perfectly clear.

 _Erik_.

You forgot all about Erik. Where is Erik? Shouldn't he be here?

Yes, Thor would never do this if Erik were here. Erik would tell Thor to behave himself. Erik would tell Thor to be nice. And Thor would listen to Erik.

But for some reason, Erik isn't here. And you have no reason to believe that he will be anytime soon. You conclude that whatever is happening, no matter how terrible, it cannot possibly go on forever. Nothing can go on forever. You simply need to be patient, to wait it out. There is no need to lose your composure, especially in the presence of other people.

Thor is right. Only babies cry. You are so determined to control yourself, to not give in to your fear, that you begin to tremble from your efforts.

At last, the pressure in your back abates. Steve straightens your legs and guides you onto your back. You are still in pain, but you can at least relax, somewhat.

Steve and the small woman leave the room and another man enters. The man is carrying something, which he drapes across your entire body. It looks like a blanket, but you quickly learn that it is not. Whatever it is, it is heavy and cold.

You are already cold, however. You have no desire to be any colder. For once, you want a real blanket, something thick and warm, and made of fur. You want to curl up by a great fire and sip steaming, hot broth.

The man exits the room. You lie there, shifting and squirming in a vain attempt to get comfortable. No matter how you position yourself, you are in pain. Your every muscle aches and trembles. You push at the dreadful, cold thing that is covering you and it falls to the floor.

The door opens again, and the small woman enters. First, she retrieves the item from the floor and drapes it back over your body. She says something to you that you cannot understand. Then, she was walks around the side of your bed. You cannot see what she is doing. You can feel her touching the port that is attached to your shoulder, injecting something into it, perhaps. There is an intense rush of warmth within you, and all of your pain rapidly fades away. You don't even feel cold anymore, not really. You try to stay awake, so that you can enjoy it. But you are suddenly extremely tired.

You sleep. You know not for how long. You know only that you do not dream. You are slowly lured back into consciousness by a faint and steady beeping.

You lick your lips. They are dry and cracked. There's a foul taste in your mouth, sour and metallic, a combination of blood and something else you cannot place.

The heavy, cold thing that was covering you earlier is gone. You feel rather warm now. You are actually perspiring a bit, even though there is nothing atop you but a thin blanket.

You are not in the same room as before. This one is slightly larger. It is more brightly lit, and it has a window in the corner.

A woman in a green tunic is fiddling with the machinery beside your bed. You want her to tell you what she is doing, or explain what is happening. She does neither.

She turns and smiles at you.

"Your dad is here," is all she says.

Then, she leaves the room.

You glimpse at the door. For a split second, you fully expect to see Odin come rushing in. You experience a pang of fear, as you contemplate what consequences might await you. Consequences for what, you're not even sure. You haven't done anything. Have you? It's entirely possible that you did something heinous and you just forgot. But then, you make out the silhouette of a familiar figure approaching, and it is definitely not Odin.

Erik tells you that he _got here_ as quickly as he possibly could. Apparently, Dr. Chen wanted to look him over and thought it would be better if Steve rode with you in the ambulance.

"In hindsight," he jokes, "it probably would have been better if we'd sent Jane."

Though the finer details continue to remain hazy, you recall that which precipitated your arrival at the hospital, including your ride in the _ambulance_. Erik had been dreadfully ill for some time. After some prompting, and with some assistance from Steve, Jane and Dr. Chen, you attempted to heal him. You must have been successful, or he would not be standing here, now.

A small woman in a white coat enters your room. You recognize her from before. She introduces herself as Dr. Patel and informs you that you have something called _bacterial meningitis._

 _"_ When you arrived," she says, "we inserted a lumboperitoneal shunt to reduce your intracranial pressure."

You know that Dr. Patel is speaking to you. While you are relieved that you can understand her words, you are unmotivated to respond. Not only are you incredibly weak and tired, but you have no idea what she is talking about. None of this feels real. It is almost as though you are watching a performance or a play.

Erik studies your face, visibly concerned about your lack of reaction. Normally, you detest having others speak for you. It is unnerving, even to you, just how little you care right now. You are sick. For all you know, you might even be dying. But you want nothing more than to just shut your eyes and let everyone else sort it out.

"Loss of speech and altered mental status are fairly typical with this type of infection," Dr. Patel provides. "It is usually temporary."

"If he was exposed to meningitis, at some point," Erik asks, "wouldn't other people have gotten sick as well?"

"Not necessarily. Bacterial meningitis is not that contagious. It's an opportunistic infection. It tends to attack people whose immune systems are weak or compromised."

"Compromised," Erik echoes. "To what extent?"

"Significantly, I imagine. I don't understand exactly what Loki doing before his symptoms presented. But whatever it was, it rendered him extremely vulnerable to infection. The pathologists who analyzed his blood theorized that he does not have an acquired immune system as we do. His body regards all pathogens equally. For us this would not work, because our innate immune systems are not powerful enough. Viruses mutate and we have to constantly adapt in order to keep up with them. His immune system is normally so powerful that it doesn't need to recognize individual pathogens in order to fight them off. But his body is not used to targeting specific pathogens. So, in his current state, he has no defense against them."

"But it is treatable, right? Humans recover from meningitis all the time."

"Correct. Though he is not human, his physiology is similar enough. And having baseline labs was tremendously helpful. We've reduced his fever and stabilized his heart rate. Enough to buy us time to diagnose the underlying illness. Since his body is responding predictably to those therapies, we believe the best course of action is to proceed as we would with any other patient and treat the infection with both antibiotics and corticosteroids. The steroids will reduce the swelling around his brain and give the antibiotics a chance to work."

"How long before you know whether the treatment is effective?"

"No less than forty-eight hours. Even so, he should remain here for a minimum of seven days for observation. And the shunt will probably have to be removed, of course. But that can be done later, as an outpatient procedure."

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch another woman enter your room. She is pushing a small cart. She approaches a metal stand next to your bed and removes an empty plastic bag from it. Afterwards, she hangs two new bags in its place.

She notices your eyes on the empty bag.

"That was just saline," she offers, "to keep you hydrated."

 _Hydrated_. You know how hydration works. Fluid goes into your body and, sooner or later, it comes out again. Both of which normally require some active participation on your part.

She notes your confusion and exchanges a worried glance with Erik.

He squeezes your hand and waits for you to look at him.

"Try not to think about it," he says.

After Dr. Patel and the other woman exit your room, you stare at Erik for a long time. Though you cannot bring yourself to care about the details of your condition or treatment, you are admittedly thankful that Erik is here now to manage things out on your behalf. If you don't have the energy to speak, you want to make an effort to stay awake for him. You owe him that much. But you end up closing your eyes and, before you know it, you are asleep again.

You wake periodically, throughout the day. Random people enter your room, constantly. Thankfully, they never stay for long. Whenever you open your eyes, you find yourself checking to make sure that Erik is still there. And whenever he catches you looking at him, he touches you, as if to further reassure you of his presence.

Erik seems different, somehow, stronger and more confident. It's strange to see him moving with such ease. And yet, there's unique sort of gentleness to him, in the way that he smiles with his entire face, and his voice makes all of his words softer around the edges.

As night falls, your pain returns with a vengeance.

You've been in pain before, far worse pain than this. The difference is that this pain is continuous. It just goes on and on. And you have no way of knowing when, or if, it will end.

You writhe against the mattress, as you contemplate your situation. You are trapped in this bed, like an infant who is unable to care for himself. Humans are likely accustomed to such frailties. You are not. There were occasions, during your childhood, when you felt like this. Not ill, necessarily, but certainly feeble and pathetic. You learned, early on, to conceal your weaknesses, lest they be used against you.

You scan the space around you, searching desperately for some potential distraction. But the room is almost entirely dark, and your eyes cannot focus on anything. You are momentarily overcome with self-pity. You fear that you actually may cry.

Erik rises from his seat, and hovers over you, briefly. While you would gladly accept any remedy that would put an end to this ordeal, no matter how ludicrous, you cannot allow him to know that you are suffering.

You know that you are being ridiculous. You take some deep breaths, steeling yourself. You are determined to endure this without complaint. The last thing you want to do is embarrass Erik or cause him distress. But your fists and jaw are still clenched, and you cannot disguise the fact that your face is drenched in sweat.

Erik dashes out of the room. He returns right away, bringing with him a young man in a long, white coat.

"I'm Dr. Hall," he offers. "What can I do for you?"

You blink back at him, and then at Erik.

"I thought you were giving him something for the pain," Erik prompts.

"Oh, I'm sure we are," the man returns. "Let me just..."

Dr. Hall pushes a button and activates a monitor on the wall. He scrolls his finger along the screen and mumbles to himself as he scans the information.

"Seizure...fever...shunt...meningitis...antibiotics and steroids..."

He turns to Erik.

"Looks like he's getting intravenous morphine. He had a bolus about two hours ago."

"Maybe you're not giving him enough."

"Ten milligrams is on the high side. It's pretty much the maximum dosage."

"His metabolism is considerably accelerated. Might that alter the efficacy of the drug?"

Dr. Hall deactivates the screen. He washes his hands at the sink and approaches your bed.

"I need to examine you," he tells you.

When you say nothing, Dr. Hall addresses Erik instead.

"I need to examine him."

Just as before, Erik touches you and waits until you look at him. Except that, this time, he doesn't squeeze your hand. He just taps your arm.

"It will be alright," he says.

" _Loki_ , is it?" Dr. Hall pries, nervously. "That's uh...an unusual name."

Dr. Hall peels the blanket away from your torso and gathers it around your waist. Then, he tugs on your gown until your abdomen is exposed. He kneads at your flesh with the tips of his fingers.

Your abdomen is sore. Technically, your entire body is sore. When the doctor's fingers land on a particularly tender spot, you suck in your breath. Any remaining doubt about the extent of physical weakness is promptly extinguished. You grip the guardrails of your bed, using all of your strength, and the flimsy, plastic material remains intact.

Dr. Hall stops what he's doing, and darts out of the room.

"I'll be right back," he calls, over his shoulder.

He returns immediately, pushing what resembles a small desk with a computer screen on it. He parks it next to your bed. Some sort of wand is attached to the desk via a long cord. Dr. Hall puts on a pair of latex gloves. He retrieves a bottle of gel, which he squirts onto one end of the wand. Then, he rubs the wand against the surface of your abdomen.

He is clearly trying to be gentle. It matters not. Even his subtle ministrations cause you significant discomfort. You breathe, raggedly, as you continue to grip the guardrail of your bed.

Dr. Hall wipes the gel from your abdomen with a paper towel. After he throws the soiled paper into the waste bin, he lowers your gown and pulls your blanket back into place. Then, he peels off his gloves and tosses them into the bin as well.

"The shunt looks good," he reports. "I don't see any blockage or over drainage. There is some swelling, but that's to be expected."

"What about the pain?" Erik asks.

"As I previously stated, he's getting intravenous morphine. He had a bolus at seven o'clock. He'll be getting another in about 2 hours."

"Like hell he will," Erik declares, angrily.

"I'm sorry?"

"I want to speak to Dr. Patel. Where is she? Is she not the attending physician?"

Dr. Hall nods, apprehensively.

"She's on call. I can page her if..."

" _On call_ ," Erik interrupts. "You're telling me she's not even here?"

"Ordinarily, she would be. She had to attend a fundraiser. I know that she planned to come back in before going home for the night."

"When will that be?"

"Eleven, maybe eleven-thirty?"

Erik glances at the clock on the wall.

"It's barely nine."

"Loki has a shunt, diverting excess cerebrospinal fluid to his peritoneal cavity. Some discomfort is to be expected."

Erik takes a step towards Dr. Hall.

"Look at him," he says, pointing at you. "I want you to look at him and tell me that he's experiencing _some discomfort_. Tell me you'd trade places with him, if you had to."

"Pain is relative—"

"You _are_ a doctor, aren't you?" Erik demands, gruffly. "Or are you just a student?"

Dr. Hall takes a step back.

"Yes, I _am_ a doctor. I'm a third year resident, internal medicine."

Erik squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest.

"Internal medicine includes the management of pain, does it not?"

"Of course, it does—"

"Then, stop making excuses and do your damn job."

You are, admittedly, fascinated by the drama unfolding before you.

Dr. Hall tugs, nervously, at the lapel of his coat. He is roughly the same height and build as Erik, but considerably younger. Yet, he is clearly intimidated.

"Right...well, Loki is obviously very different than...other patients we've had. And his systolic is definitely elevated. I guess I can give him some Codeine to tide him over until Dr. Patel returns. She can decide what to do from there."

Dr. Hall leaves the room again and returns with a syringe. He puts on yet another pair of latex gloves, uncaps the syringe and injects its contents directly into the little plastic port that is attached to your shoulder. Your pain subsides, somewhat, though not quite as thoroughly as before. You are no longer in agony, at least.

When the two of you are alone again, Erik sings a song to you in Swedish. You understand enough to know that it is about a bear that is sleeping. Some part of you appreciates that it is a nursery rhyme, and most likely intended for young children. Nevertheless, the sound of it is comforting. Under any other circumstances, you would undoubtedly be embarrassed to be on the receiving end of such attention. Right now, it is a welcome respite from your new reality, one which consists either of sleep or pain, or some combination of both.


End file.
